You're Not Alone
by MmeCatastrophe
Summary: Natasha Romanoff, 21, and Clint Barton, 24. As principal dancers of a big ballet company, both have performed numerous dances and stories. And this is the story of their own.
1. Once upon A Time

**Author's Notes:** This is my first piece of work published on this site! It's a Clintasha/BlackHawk AU story qnd I'm posting the first chapter to see how people like it and I will make it a multi-chapter story if you guys think it's okay(so please read and review!) I've tried to make everything as accurate as possible but I don't know much about a dancer's life or schedule, sorry for that. If there is any inaccuracy / you've got more information please let me know, thank you!

Also this is my first long story written in English (not my mother tongue), so if you spot any grammar mistakes or illogical stuff, or if you have any suggestions, please let me know too, thank you:)

Celine

 _Once upon a time._

 _Once upon a time there was a swan queen named Odette, who was a victim of a spell cast by an evil sorcerer. Then there was a carefree prince who met Odetta on a hunting trip. He got to know about her misfortune and swore to love her forever. However, at the grand Royal Ball the next day, the aforementioned sorcerer Von Rothbart arrived with his daughter Odile who_ _'_ _d transformed to Odette through_ _magic_ _and the prince_ _mist_ _ook her for his true lover. Just as he vowed his love for Odile and was about marry her, that powerful yet stupid_ _villain_ _Von Rothbart showed him a freaking vision which caused him_ _realise_ _his mistake and hurries back to the lake to Odette._

 _An eight-year-old can tell you the rest of the story_ _—_ _the pair reaffirmed their love and chose to die and ascent to Heaven together and, as the script described,_ _'_ _forever united in love._ _'_

According to most people, it was the most beautiful tragedy ever, and according to the dancers Clint knew and himself, it means so much to be in the A-cast of the season's Swan Lake. He remembered how everyone around knew this story by heart ever since they started school and how many of the boys said they want to be Prince Siegfried on day one.

It was supposed to be a simple story. The hero and heroine go through all the trials and up-and-downs, and either end up happily ever after or leave us a tragic ending. That's it. Prince Siegfried the hero and Princess Odetta the heroine. Together they beat Von Rothbart the great villain and his daughter and lived happily ever after. If not a happy ending then at least the audience's hearts belong to _them_. Honestly no one gave a second thought to Odile. She was just a tool to help with the plot. No one was going to care about her. It was meant to be beautiful, simple story for us people without magical powers. But she _was_ different, at least for Clint. She was that beautiful swirl of black he was never going to forget.

Clint being Clint Barton was not going to stop at that ending. He had never believed in shiny armours or magic kingdoms—he was a man and men always do all the hard work in such a story (well except that time Alice sliced the Jabberwocky, but that doesn't exactly count as 'such a story'?) , not to mention he wasn't some lucky prince born with a silver spoon.

He may not have magic, but that certainly didn't stop his imagination from traveling a few hundred miles to some unexplored place. You do not just sort people into the good and bad piles. It'd only be fair that ugly evil witches and wizards all had their own stories. That was definitely the smarter and more attractive part of the story.

As for the story, the worst thing was that they didn't even mention Odile at the end. Wasn't she a great character? Wasn't she worth exploring a little deeper? There was no way she just magically vanished into thin air without anyone noticing, right?

BAM.

Time for an alternative view.

 _Once upon a time there was a little girl named Odile._

Clint slowly walked along a corridor in the theatre, letting his thoughts slip to the black swan again.

Now that the season was coming and they didn't have performances these days, he now spent extra time after regular classes to practice. He would go to Steve's bakery around the corner to have a quick rest and chat with his friend, and then drag his feet back to the rehearsal room. He loved wandering down the busy streets of New York City and just feeling the air. He loved staring up at the Met, searching for the almost invisible stars in the sky (what a shame!) and remembering entering this building as a child in excitement, and later, walking out with a dream.

He loved the feeling of being alone in a classroom, hand on the barre, steady and comfy just like every time he dances on stage. He had discovered that feeling long ago when he was still a student, and the habit gave him great help all the way.

 _She was born in a family of magic. Her mother was a witch. She was a kindest and most warm-hearted woman, and when she changed into a swan, it was the most beautiful creature in the world. Her father Odile did not know. She tried asking but her Ma would say nothing. She only knew that it was of no use to ask again, and the magical power shared between she and her mother must be kept a secret. And so, together they lived a peaceful and happy life in a cottage by the lake, in a forest._

Clint had never thought about Odile's childhood before. One of his classmates said she was just brought up by her father, the evil Von Rothbart as the story led people to believe so. But at this moment it felt like there were several universes existing in Clint's head with possibilities. And damn it wasn't his fault that possibilities were beautiful.

And here we insert 'one day' to start the main plot.

' _Ma?_ _'_

' _Yes, darling?_ _'_

' _Will I be a swan pretty as you?_ _'_

' _Of course you will. You will grow into a fair woman and a prettiest swan._ _Remember that in your veins flows the blood from the oldest and most powerful family of wizardry. You will be able to do all the magic as long as you-_ _'_

' _-don_ _'_ _t tell others about our secret. Why? What would happen if someone told others?_ _'_

' _I_ _myself ha_ _v_ _e no idea_ _dear. Your grandfather used to warn me that anyone who did that would live a most painful life. No one is looking forward to seeing whether it_ _'_ _s true or defining_ _"_ _painful_ _"_ _, of course._ _'_

' _And I certainly won_ _'_ _t. I promise I won_ _'_ _t._ _'_

 _The_ _slender_ _woman smiled adoringly at her_ _daughter and nodded._

' _Okay darling. What do you want to do this afternoon?_ _'_

' _Learn some new tricks? Or watch you play them?_ _'_

Clint smiled softly as the image of a little girl in a flowery sundress making a promise to her mother entered his mind. A wooden house surrounded by thick green and in the middle of nowhere. The warmth of dim orange light radiated through clear glass which was decorated with ivory and dove-grey windowsills. A slim and mild woman doing garden work around the house in a smocked white apron and just enjoying some time with her daughter, her own princess. He ignored that part of his mind that wanted to chuckle at the contrast between this lovely scene and a beautiful, sultry dark force. Everything just all sounded like the perfect, perfect life he had quitted wishing for himself but could never stop hoping to see in other people's lives.

 _Meanwhile, at the other end of the forest lived an evil wizard_ _—_ _whose name was Von Rothbart, of course. He had wrinkled yellow skin and his scary legs were like those of a crane_ _'_ _s. His malformed nose and chin made you have goose bumps and he whispered who-knows-_ _what_ _to himself all the time. There_ _was dark, poison-like mist_ _around his house, protecting it_ _s master and_ _providing_ _deadly silence_ _. He had had his eyes on Odile and her mother since long ago, for he knew that the power their family held was something he_ _'_ _d never experienced and would help him seize the greatest power in this country and take over the throne. The problem was that, how could he achieve that evil wish?_

Let's get our attention back to our girl.

 _Little Odile didn_ _'_ _t suspect that she would have to go through that toughest trial in her life on that very same day. All she could remember was being alone and waiting for her Mama late at night, only to hear a knock on the door._

 _Odile carefully opened the window and saw a boy a few years older than her. A young man, if she ignore the traces of a child on his face._

' _Are you here to bring me a message from my mother? Is she not coming home tonight?_ _'_ _Same thing had happened before._ _S_ _ometimes her mother would decide that she needed something at the_ _market_ _far from home. She would fly home or send a message to Odile, using her magic and come back the next day. Odile was only a little worried because normally her mother wouldn_ _'_ _t give some other random people_ _their_ _home address._ Probably she's surrounded by people and has to ask someone's son to bring home a message, _she_ _tried to_ _stay calm._

' _You are Odile? It was quite a trip to reach your house, girl._ _'_

' _Yes_ _and stop complaining. What did my mother say?_ _'_

' _Well_ _…_ _she said sorry. And I_ _'_ _m sorry, too._ _'_ _T_ _he stranger put a beautiful black feather on the windowsill._ _'_ _I think she_ _'_ _s never coming back, and I_ _'_ _m truly sorry for that._ _S_ _he said she had cast some sort of a spell around the house so that you would have all things you need and grow up to be a_ _…_ _prettiest swan?_ _H_ _onestly I have no idea what she_ _'_ _s saying. Forgive me for saying this but she did look_ _…_ _a little mad. You_ _'_ _re not a bird or a witch, are you?_ _'_

 _ **She**_ _ **'**_ _ **s never coming back.**_

' _Wha_ _…_ _What happened?_ _'_ _Odile_ _'_ _s heart was filled with confusion and fear. She told to herself that she had heard it wrong despite that a tiny part of her mind kept denying that._

' _I was walking down the street and ready to go back home when she grabbed me and ask me to bring you this message. She seemed to be avoiding someone, though. I heard a gunfire and it looked like a king_ _'_ _s man fired a bullet. Then she vanished and leaved this feather. Thought I_ _'_ _d bring it to you, too._ _'_

' _That was thoughtful of you. Thank you._ _'_ _Her voice was incredibly shaky and faint now. Inside her mind a voice screamed so fiercely as of it_ _wouldn't_ _stop until she_ _'_ _s too numb to feel it. Another voice told her to shut the window and go to sleep and next morning she_ _'_ _d wake up from her mother_ _'_ _s tickles._

' _Who in his right mind would go against the King? They say he_ _'_ _s become more_ _anxious_ _as the Queen is about to give birth to his very first child,_ _'_ _he sighed._ _'_ _Again I_ _'_ _m sorry. If you need anything, I live with my Pa and Ma about ten miles away on the east side of the forest, okay?_ _'_ _The young man touched his hat, nodded and left._

 _Odile forced herself to look at the feather. It was as black and dark as coal and was sparkling with orange and purple hues. She thought about Mama_ _'_ _s garden and attic and knew she wasn_ _'_ _t alone. But she wanted her mother back so badly._

 _You must not cry. You must not cry. You must not cry._

 _Crying didn_ _'_ _t work wonder to bring back a loved one._

 _There were a night she watched and shouted fiercely as the swan burnt itself in striking blue flames like a phoenix. Only that even though the swan had magic, it was no bird of wonder. It_ _didn't_ _rebirth like a phoenix. The flame decreased to a size that could almost be carried around in a bottle._

 _She woke up but that image refused to leave. It made her feel an almost_ _uncontrollable_ _will to force out something in her body. The power she held. And that was the first time she used her magic. Her power, which she later would often imagine as beams of fluorescent ocean blue light as bright as fire and as illusory as mist, ghosted_ _through miles and miles of tall trees that seemed to poke the sky and was caught by the evil Von Rothbart. He used this_ _opportunity_ _to add a little flavour to Odile_ _'_ _s magic and together they formed a great spell. He cast the spell on the king_ _'_ _s family and a few days later the man who fired his rifle was trembling in a deadly fever. Before it took away his life like he did others_ _'_ _, he dreamt of the swan he_ _'_ _d met several days ago._

Sounded like the bad man got his much deserved ending. But happily ever afters? There are no happily ever afters. The reality was that twisted fate didn't end when the villain was killed. The nightmares didn't stop when the dark power was eliminated. Revenge only relieved a mere fraction of anger and pain. There were things that were meant to stay forever. The scars remained for a lifetime and those memories haunted the princess day and night.

 _What is next? What brings to the second part of the story?_ _Odile'_ _s spell didn_ _'_ _t stop there, for only a few days after the death of the man, the Queen give birth to a girl (much to_ _the_ _whole court_ _'_ _s disappointment, of course) whom they named Odette and in her dream_ _—_ _didn_ _'_ _t it always happen in dreams_ _—_ _she was told about the destiny of this poor, unblessed swan princess._

-o0o0o0o0o-

Tap, tap, tap.

His thoughts were interrupted as he noticed a sound of a pointe shoe tapping on the wooden floor. _Who is that?_ A wonderful thing about being in the theatre so late was that no one would be here except himself. As much as he liked to share his training time with fellow dancers, Clint found it nice to have some quiet time of his own.

 _Who is that sole dancer in this place where magic happens?_

Tracking the noise, he stopped at the nearest classroom. He quickly realised the source of that sound.

Natasha Romanoff.

Principal dancer from Russia. She has been working here since only this September and no one really knew her. For several times when Steve stopped to have a break before all the other customers hit the café, Clint chatted with him about her, and hell he had been teasing about that since then!

 _(God, Clint, it you_ _can't_ _stop bothering me about that girl, why_ _don't_ _you just talk to her and figure all this out? I know I know I_ _'_ _m not an expert but this time you should just listen to me!_ _)_

Nope nope he wasn't going out with _random dancers_ in his company even if she had got _astonishing_ legs. The girl was no more than 21, Clint guessed as he hadn't checked her information on the website and didn't want to, either. And a high rank dancer in Mariinsky, he knew about that on the first day when she introduced herself as a Mariinsky principal and former Vaganova student. And indeed, she was _skilled_. She arrived early at class, practised harder than anyone else and was awfully good at what she did. She ate alone and little ( _Does she even eat at all?_ Clint thought about the nutty salad and biscuits in his dance bag and wondered what he would do without them) and generally a quiet person. In fact, so quiet you can't tell if she was in her own world or just didn't bother to get into others' business. There was never a hint of fun on her face!

 _Not much of a wonder, though. Beautiful, cold Russian ballerina, coded with the Vaganova system and crowned with pride._

Clint had always adored the Russian ballet, but he didn't really know it in depth. He could nearly recognise every principal and sometimes soloist in Mariinsky and Bolshoi. Tchaikovsky's music? He had known them by heart since maybe eight. But how the dancers are trained? He had no idea. He knew it was partly the same hard, exhausting progress they had all been through, but he also had heard that it was only much stricter in Russia. Long limbs, delicate neck and head, perfect extension and techniques. He'd watched those videos, seen those picture that said enough about perfection.

Leaning against the door, he gave a faint smile to the Russian dancer in the room. Natasha smiled back and they exchanged a nod. Clint took that as a permission to enter the classroom.

She was still in her dancing wear, crimson hair tucked neatly into a bun. Since most ballerinas Clint knew liked their accessories in pale or bright colours, he could tell that she was a lover of black. Isn't that obvious-black leotard, black skirt and leg warmers. She'd got her shawl and tights in a dull pink and Clint had to admit they looked _really_ great on her. All in the simplest style but everything seemed pretty comfortable, and that's the most important rule.

Natasha sat near the piano, legs spread out and a pointe shoe in her hand. Clint could see that the shoe had been prepared and ripped a little, and he guessed she was just trying to break it a bit.

'New shoes?'

She nodded. 'I bought these from Russia.'

'You can get shoes from the company you know that.'

'Next time maybe. I've got another pair from Russia.' She pointed into her dance bag.

 _Gotta save_ _'_ _em for memory,_ _then._

'I thought no one would be up this early.'

'That was my opinion, too.' Clint paused then added, 'do you Russians always practice after class?'

' _I_ do. Used to arrive at class at nine and go home at ten.'

Wow. That was the secret of our gifted girl. Realising the stress she put on the word I, he made a mental note not to put 'Russians' after 'you' next time.

'When I was in school, I got up at, like, six. I just wished I could stay in bed a bit longer instead of being out of bed still half asleep. It was so cold and dark outside and my mind didn't seem to start functioning until half of my first class had passed.' Clint smiled nostalgically as he recalled his bittersweet days as a ballet school student.

Natasha snorted slightly and brought Clint back to reality. Yet and here they were. Of course no one wanted to work their asses off like that but if you asked them to walk out of the classroom, no one would either. That was what made them dancers. And those who pushed themselves harder than anyone else and make themselves stay ahead made good dancers.

Natasha finished prepping the shoe and tossed it in her dance bag. She put on an old pair of light blush-coloured pointe shoes, got up and stood by the barre.

'The sum-up? A combination of your own?' Clint asked. They would do combinations together in class every day but a few hours each day was quite enough for Clint. He himself always did something different from the boring routine for his day to end 'properly' and that was how he'd created the word sum-up. Natasha was quiet and usually over-polite, but he highly doubted she was _that_ obedient to stick to everything taught in school.

He received a nod which indicated he was right about his guessing, and which left him in an awkward position. Should he join her, since he was in his dancing gear too? Or maybe she's comfortable with an unexpected audience? Somehow Clint felt that she had enjoyed her solitude so far, and he couldn't feel even a teeny-tiny sense of uncertainty around her.

Obviously Natasha hadn't the patience for him to think—her right hand was on the barre already and she was in a basic first position with her natural grace. She seemed comfortable. Therefore, Clint decided to make himself comfortable, too. After tilting his head to the front of the rehearsal room and receiving a nod from Natasha, he quietly walked to another barre in front of hers and took out his salad. _Hmm_ he took down a mental note to thank Steve later for the yummy-looking food. He was careful to check Natasha's expression when she saw the salad (since he guessed she had a _spoonful_ of dinner after rehearsal and she was more or less starving right now), and started to enjoy his remaining dinner after making sure the cold Russian lady wasn't going to kill him for showing a food trigger.

-o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o-

'You are a good dancer.' _And a ballerina who can turn a combination in an early morning into a splendid performance._

'Thank you.' Natasha said as they sat down against the mirror. Oh, those words meant that much. It was a simple statement but both of them knew that it was something so rare, a great honour. Not a lot of people had said to them. And when the sentence was heard, it was usually on great, formal occasions. Personally Clint thought he probably could count the times he heard those words with one hand.

To be honest, all dancers had such experience-on the graduation day, the first day in the company, and so on. (Well, maybe not everyone had the chance to be congratulated as soloists and principals.) However, Clint got an uneasy feeling that he had a bond with the Russian in front him.

He turned to Natasha and was greeted by the faintest smile he'd ever seen.

 _Okay, that girl doesn_ _'_ _t talk or smile much._ But if Clint was going to work with her this entire season, he had to know something more than her being a great ballerina. He wanted to know something about her, personally. Besides, the girl got his attention from the first day like the black swan.

'So…you lived in all you life before you came here?'. Clint asked as they sat down for a rest.

She simply gave a nod. 'I was born in England, which explains the English version of my name.'

'Natalia Romanova sounds pretty nice too.'

'Well, that's how everyone in Russia called me.' She turned to face him, surprised by the fact that he knew the Russian variation of her name.

'You leave your family there?' He felt the stare so he turned to look at her, too. Gosh he remembered those sharp green eyes from the rehearsal earlier, but he honestly had no idea why they were so breathtaking now.

'Not really.' She turned back to face the grey wall, her face blank.

'Why—sorry that was none of my business.'

'Indeed.'

Clint didn't ask if she learnt that perfect English from her parents, either. She spoke with a slight mixture of British and Russian accents, which was adorable.

He swallowed the urge to ask more about her personal life. Clint had always tried to be open about himself and there wasn't really much he would kept a secret. But he remembered the first few years after he had lost his parents; he had thought about them all the time. Maybe she had a similar experience, or worse. And from those years he lived with his grandma, politeness he had learnt. There was no need to recall bad memories.

'Do you people always pry into others' lives like that?' Natasha interrupted his thoughts.

'Well I'm just curious! Plus technically that wasn't so personal…fine I guess it was to you.' Clint quickly added after seeing Natasha's expression. There were so many things he wanted to know about her! He wanted to know her favourite music and books (and maybe food), what her childhood looked like, how she was brought up, even her preference when it came to salad dressing.

'So what's Vaganova like? That's assuming you graduated from that school before joining Mariinsky?' He changed the subject to avoid more awkward conversation on her family.

Natasha chuckled slightly. 'It shall always my favourite ballet school in the world, of course. Not much to tell, though. You people train hard here, and back in Russian we did it even harder and that's it. And we got some of the best teachers. Some of them were scary. Others weren't so frightening to be in the same room with.'

'Frightening?' Clint knew there were teachers and choreographers who were impossible to please and always spoke with a tone, but frightening was not going to be his choice of word when it comes to the teachers, after all these years.

'Yeah. Some teachers made me quite uncomfortable. But I've gone through it now and things became better when I worked my way up to the soloist and then principal.'

Ah that was probably the longest sentence so far? There was a determination in her voice-something Clint was quite familiar with. On those lonely nights in the boarding school, when he got snide remarks from his teachers and missed his grandma, he would tell himself to practise harder. He would stay in the classroom after class and practise the techniques until every single movement was spotless. He would go to bed with his hope and plan for tomorrow, always wishing to be the best.

And he did it. He walked out of the Academy the first in his class, proud written all over his face. In some way, he felt that Natasha had the experience.

That was one more thing they shared, then.

'Some twenty years later when I am a teacher, I guess I'll try to be nice.'

'Oh no years later you'll just be the same ill-tempered, picky teacher or director as almost every teacher I know.' Natasha raised one eyebrow and teased.

 _Woo_ _…_ _Ice queen told a joke!_ Next second the glare from Natasha made Clint _so_ glad he'd kept that sentence to himself.

'That's so not true!' He replied instead, half joking half imagining himself to be the most popular teacher in the school for being nice to every student.

'That's the truth I know.' Natasha shook her head, a smile on her face so that Clint knew she wasn't serious.

'Watch me.'

She snorted again. Clint didn't say anything after that. He just felt nice sitting there. They fell back to silence for a while. Clint let his thoughts slip back to the black swan.

 _Time flied by and Odette grew like any pampered, unworried princess. Only that she had a face that looked exactly like Odile_ _'_ _s, and her mother worried every day about the coming of her daughter_ _'_ _s 15_ _th_ _birthday_ _—_ _in the dream it had said that the spell would start to work as the clock struck twelve and she became fifteen._

 _It was only one month before the nightmare began. On night, Odette was called into her room and there her mother_ _waited_ _. The woman was forced to tell her daughter about her destiny. Odette wept and cried about why she was going to be tortured by such fate._

' _My dearest daughter! If only this can be a little comfort for you! If a prince who has never loved come to find you by the lake and swears to love you forever, the spell will be broken. But you must remember that Von Rothbart must not die before it or you_ _'_ _ll remain a swan forever._ _'_

That made sense, didn't it? Clint thought to himself as he watched Natasha while she was shooting burning stares at her dance bag. He was almost sure the only reason for Prince Siegfried to be attracted to Odette was her holy white feathers. What a fool that girl would be if she hopelessly believed the prince's words!

 _On the day of the Royal Ball, Von Rothbart knocked on the door of Odile_ _'_ _s wooden house and entered without invitation. Every piece of interior almost_ _remain_ _ed the same as more than ten years ago. Only the girl had become even more beautiful and independent through all there years of living alone (which was nothing easy, even with the help of magic). He had seen her many times in his magic crystal ball, for sure; but it was different to see the real Odile without barriers. She had lost her innocence but gained_ _something_ _new, a mixture of glowing glamour and danger._

' _You shall do me a favour, Odile._ _'_ _There was no need to sit down and wait for tea from the hostess._

' _Why?_ _'_ _Odile had never liked the sorcerer, though she had no personal reason to hate him, either._

' _Don_ _'_ _t you want to take revenge on the man who took away your mother?_ _'_

 _Odile froze._ _She had learnt to let go and lived on, but revenge didn_ _'_ _t sound like a bad idea at all._

' _You_ _'_ _ll need to follow my orders then_ _.'_ _Von Rothbart said_ _with a_ _wicked smile._ _'_ _All you need to do was to attend the Royal Ball tonight, and make good use of your beauty. Seduce the prince._ _'_ _Von Rothbart dropped his instructions before he left, leaving only thin smoke in the room._

 _Odile was confused. What did revenge had to do with seducing a prince? But she as hell wasn_ _'_ _t going to pay a visit to the wizard_ _'_ _s lovely haunting house so she made up her mind and started to prepare for the party._

Von Rothbart only tripped Odetta in the forest so that after he showed the Prince the vision, he would go into the forest and then he would take care of them both, Clint imagined. After that, he was going to manipulate Miss Black Swan and use her magic to make up for his loss fifteen years ago when someone chased that woman and make her disappear. Then he would take over the throne when everyone else was busy panicking. Clint could literally hear his evil laughs-'You humans are all fools!'

 _And Odile had made herself a fool by taking his words, too._

 _Nope. You just_ _can't_ _say her love for her family is stupid._

Speaking of family…

'I don't have a family back there. Not really,' Natasha broke the silence. 'I can hear you wondering in your mind.'

Clint wanted to say she didn't know what he was thinking, but luckily he managed to hold back the comment just before it slipped out.

'I'm sorry,' he replied genuinely.

'It's fine. I had loved my time as a dancer in Russian, and am not planning to ruin my career here.' They fell back into silence.

The peace broke when they heard someone else walking in the corridor.

'You don't really have friends here.' It was more of a statement than a question, and he knew he was crossing a line.

'I've always been fine on my own.' She shrugged.

Ooh, a slightly-pissed (seriously is that even a word?) Natasha sounded even more adorable. Clint didn't let it show, though.

'But you need someone!' He argued.

Natasha rolled her eyes and get up to the barre again.

'I doubt.'

 _The king_ _'_ _s men also doubted when Odile arrived at the palace alone. The air around her_ _smelled of power and grace, and if people were ever to link her with magic, it would be the strong, powerful kind._

 _The Prince didn_ _'_ _t notice anything when he walked through the crowd to his lover. His soul now belonged to her eyes, her skin, her lips_ _—_ _what do they say? Les fleurs de grenade qui fleurissent dans les jardins de Tyr et sont plus_ _rouges que les roses, ne sont pas aussi rouges._

 _Her scent. The sweet,_ _luxurious_ _mixture of bourbon vanilla, jasmine and sandalwood. It wasn_ _'_ _t the scent of pale despair and sheer happiness. It didn_ _'_ _t link to a damsel in distress, nor did it say things about hopelessly in love. It smelled of_ _mystery_ _and seduction. It was ruby, diamond and rose gold. From that moment the Prince knew she wasn_ _'_ _t his lover wearing black jewels instead of white. She was a different person._

 _But there she danced. She seemed to be flying with those swift steps, and for a moment the P_ _r_ _ince thought she was turning to a swan and flying away there and then. She turned round after round, her dark-coloured jewels creating a spinning universe decorated by the soft chuckle from_ _between_ _those burning red lips. She was so close to him, yet her_ _voice_ _was foreign with too many secrets to tell._

 _And he was gone._

Watching Natasha dance was different, and technically it was just a combination. _Some people just have the ability to make combinations look like great choreographies, Clint Barton,_ he sighed to himself. Sure enough he was more than happy to admire her body. When she moved, he could see the outline of her long, lean muscles. They weren't like those of an athlete's. They were far more delicate, almost like porcelain. She was so pale that there weren't much difference between the colour of her arms and that of her velvet-tights-clad legs.

What's more, he knew he was seeing the true Natasha, too. Nobody could hide their emotions so well when dancing, he thought. He could see how she focused on every little movement on her feet, and how she loved moving her arms to the music as if it had been the most amazing feeling in this whole world. He loved her slight frown when she thought a certain movement wasn't good enough, and the slight tilt on her lip corner when she completely melt into it.

He decided to jump to the end of the swan story since he didn't really have anything to add to the 'forever united in love' part. That part didn't consist of Odile, either.

 _Odile_ _had told a guard that she needed a walk in the garden for some fresh air as she saw Von Rothbart appear in the ballroom and was about to show the vision._ _She_ _quietly walk_ _ed far_ _into the garden so she wasn'_ _t bothered by other couples. There she heard the evil voice and panicked screams of some ladies as the Prince made his way out of the palace, and she knew what had happened, and what was going to happen._

 _She flew back home. Then she saw them. How he_ _regretted_ _, how they reaffirmed their love, how they chose to stay together forever. She saw him, too. She saw how he died when the spell was broken. She knew she should probably feel grateful, happy or at least_ _somewhat_ _relieved, because the pain eased a bit when Odile and her lover died and Von Rothbart did, too, and there was one more thing to be sure of. It felt like a proper closure. She inhaled, exhaled. And all she could think about was that she was all alone._

' _Hi, you_ _'_ _re Odile, right?_ _'_ _a familiar voice rang from her back. She turned around and see a familiar face. Ah yes. The boy who sent her that saddest news years ago. It brought_ _back_ _awful memories, but she struggled not to think too much._

' _Yes, and I remember you._ _'_ _She nodded._

' _Just walked by and thought I_ _'_ _d have a check on you_ _…_ _the lights were off. That_ _seldom_ _happen, I mean._ _'_

' _I know. An eventful night,_ _isn't_ _it?_ _'_

' _You are as calm and unreadable as you were when you were five, girl._ _'_ _He shook his head._

' _What do you want?_ _'_ _she was trying to be patient._

' _Nothing. You know where I live. Now even though you seem to be doing pretty well, Mum always says we can_ _'_ _t let you live on your own, girl._ _'_ _He stopped, watching her lips part as if she wanted to say anything, and he was positive it was about the_ _live-on-your-own thing, so he added, '_ _you_ _are not alone.'_

 _ **You are not alone.**_

 _The voice seemed some good distance away, and it felt strange to hear it from others._

 _ **Y**_ _ **ou are not alone, girl,**_ _she silently whispered to herself just like she_ _'_ _d done 15 years ago._

' _Thank you. I am perfectly fine on my own._ _'_ _S_ _he replied._

 _And we all believe that was true._

Clint did, too.

'You know what I love about the black swan pas de deux?' Natasha's voice brought him back to the reality. She precisely lowered her feet and relaxed against the barre.

'Hey, didn't know you liked Swan Lake too.' He continued to stare at her with excitement. Not too many dancers favoured Swan Lake, and the fact that she did just made it a hundred times easier to work with her. 'You like the personality of Odile, don't you?'

'Yes. She's smart and brave and doesn't need others' rescue. I like her a lot.' Natasha smiled at the feeling of playing the black swan on stage. That was definitely her favourite part of the dance.

'And the display of technique?' Clint asked expectantly. He'd watched footages of her Swan Lake before and knew how steady she was with all the 32 fouette turns. He'd admire her for that single reason, if nothing else. Hell he'd liked everything about her so far.

'That makes me feel great, too.' She said softly.

This was the best day of his life. _Do you just love the fouettes or the general feeling of doing turns and spinning around, cause slow dance is my next favourite,_ he thought.'You're done?'

'I guess so.' She walked back to her dance bag. His eyes followed her movement curiously.

'You really don't mind my watching?' Solitude was a thing. Space was, too.

She zipped close her dance bag and shook her head, smirking. 'As long as you tell where you got your dinner.'


	2. First Rehearsal

**Author** **'** **s Notes:** Thank you guys so much for the reviews, follows and favourites!

Sorry for the late update. My school organised a super boring camp in some wild place with no wifi access. Sorry.

In this chapter Clint and Natasha rehearsed for Swan Lake, and I just picked a scene I liked. I am no choreographer and can't say I understand the ballet any better than a normal audience, but I've tried I really hope you'll like it because it cost me quiet some time to watch and rewatch the video and write this…

Also I feel that I should say the French words in the first chapter were quoted from Salome [Oscar Wilde]. And this story starts with the plot of Swan Lake, but it isn't about that only. I feel like going through several produces.

Natasha's debut in her new company in due in September and I plan to make the story's timeline as close to reality as possible. So each month I'll post about three chapters

Again if you have any insight of a ballet dancer's life please comment and let me know, thank you.

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'She looks like a Giselle girl.'

'No way! Besides Sawn Lake, I think she likes Jewels more. The poetry could really fit her.'

'You've always liked Balanchine. She might be a surprise to us all.'

Clint sat by the wooden bar in Steve's bakery, a sandwich in his hand. Since Natasha had told him that the bakery was pretty close to her apartment, he thought he might as well bring her here to sit awhile after work. The bakery didn't really provide dinner and Clint wouldn't eat a lot as it was late, but Steve had a lovely taste for interior design. Clint enjoyed the dim lighting and different hues of blue in the shop. He had hoped Natasha would like these, too.

When Clint had introduced her to Steve about half an hour earlier, the taller man had offered to make her a small dessert. After a 15-minute walk filled with Clint chattering about how good the food made by Steve tasted and looked, and how healthy it was, she had made up her mind to break her diet for an hour and order something. After offering Steve her greeting, she asked if she could just have a pavlova, and insisted that he should go chat with Steve while she was eating her food. Some offtime would nice after a long day.

Now that Steve had finished preparing the material for tomorrow, he was writing something on his notebook.

'Maybe next time I shall keep some strawberry tarts. She seems to like those berries.' Steve said quietly after observing Natasha popping all the strawberries into her mouth and started to draw on the cream frosting with no intention of eating it later.

'I had been so sure she would ask for a cuppa or something like that, if she wanted anything at all. She eats so little that I was worried about her having apositia. Yet right here right now our great Russian ballerina has finally decided not to faint in class and rehearsals and is now having creamy dessert.'

'She looks way too skinny. Some cream will do her good you know?'

'I'm not judging her…it's just I've never seen a ballerina who would have dessert this late. You're right. She _is_ going to be one hell of a surprise.' Clint himself absolutely had nothing against swallowing down a whole chocolate pie anytime of the day. He shook his head but couldn't help smiling fondly at Natasha.

'Is there anything we know about her?'

 _What?_ Clint raised his eyebrow.

'Last time you came here Natasha Romanoff was the mysterious badass ballerina you hardly know, but now this is kinda…like a date.' Steve said with a smirk, looking expectantly at Clint.

'Me sitting here and talking with you and her being in the sofa over there and eating her close-to-nothing snack is nowhere near a date, Rogers. And I've never imagined chatting with you about a girl, to be honest.'

'Whatever you say. Did you find out more about her?'

'Why are you even asking? What do you expect me to know after talking to her for, like, ten minutes?' He tilted his eyebrow.

'Let me guess. Ten minutes is longer than the total time of everybody else has spent talking with her since she arrived.'

 _Okay, okay._ 'Good news for you. She gets up as early as I do. Or earlier, since every time I got to the theatre she was there, too.'

'Does that mean I'm going to gain one more regular customer?'

'Judge from her expression right now, yes.' Clint said after eyeing the Russian and sensing the pleasant atmosphere around her that indicates 'good food, good mood'. Skinny _and_ foodie at the same time, _very well._

'Great. What else? What do you think of her? ' Steve continued.

Clint rolled his eyes. _Next time he_ _'_ _ll simply ask Natasha to sit with them and Rogers can play his 20 Questions instead of being so curious about him_ _ **and**_ _her._

'She's got beauty. And muscles,' he added with a sigh. 'Long, intoxicating muscles.'

'And really deep and clear green eyes. I heard that one on the first day she popped up at your early morning class. Remember that you spent a good half an hour talking about how you adored Phil for making you two partners. Next.'

He did remember, and was still sure the decision to talk the artistic director into the idea of Natasha and Clint was the wisest his instructor had ever made. 'And she was really quiet. Like, deadly quiet.'

'Since chatty girls don't sit alone in the corner of a bar, or in this case, a bakery…Yup, that too.'

Clint shrugged. Steve saw confusion clouding his friend's mind.

'Now I see there _is_ something new. Tell me?'

'I'm not even sure.'

'You are both dancers. You share quite a lot of things, don't you?'

'Hmm, okay. You may be right on this one.'

'Like…something from your past, or something that shaped who you are.' Steve threw his hands in the air to make commas and watched Clint roll his eyes for the second time tonight.

'Cliché. You know she graduated from Vaganova, which is amazing, and I dunno if she got this habit in Russia…she talks so little and it's hard to actually get to know her.' He sighed hearing his own answer. He had no idea what it was or what was going to happen next. He tried his best to feel something that could be put into words but hell there was a reason why feelings were called feelings. You just _feel_ them.

'You know my mum used to joke that if she ever got married again, she'd find someone who understood all her strange gestures and expressions without her having to spend half an hour explaining them.' Steve offered.

'Yeah. That's not very exact, I mean, but yeah.' He wished to be there for her, too.

'It feels great to know someone gets the idea, isn't it?' Steve nodded understandingly before slipping back to his curious mode. 'Are you going to ask her out or not?'

'I'm not sure about that either.' Clint shrugged his shoulders, hoping he would still be friends with Natasha the next morning. 'I had a nice early morning session with the girl today but this is going to be a long, long way…Wait. Why are you giving me relationship advice? When your only date is likely to be a cookie cutter?'

'Tell me you have a better idea.'

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Next day, Clint arrived at the theatre early as usual. He changed and went to the rehearsal room he had met Natasha the day before. She was there in the same outfit.

'What time exactly do you get here?'

'Earlier than you.'

'Then you are probably the only one who gets here earlier than I do. Breakfast?' Actually he had already heard complaints about how some grapefruit satisfied her stomach when he went by Steve's bakery this morning. Steve, as careful as he always was, had wrapped some flourless chocolate pancakes and asked him to give them to her. ('I'm good at taking care of people, haha. Now ice queen needs to eat, too.')

Tap, tap, tap.

 _Ouch, okay. Breakfast is a more private subject than family, then._

Clint waved the pack at her as she pulled out her stretching tape from her dance bag. Her lips parted a little as if she wanted to say something and then shut together quickly. She turned to the mirror and laid out the mat to start her stretching routine.

Natasha spread her legs to her sides and began to lower her upper body with her hands supporting the weight until her stomach touched with the floor. She bent her arms so that her forehead was resting on her arms, her face towards the floor. Her nose almost touched the mat and her arms seemed to block out the rest of the world so Clint couldn't see or read her expressions.

 _Those pancakes?_ It wasn't that she didn't like pancakes, especially those chocolaty, raspberry-filled ones she saw Steve preparing when she stopped by to have her breakfast earlier; it was just that the gesture reminded her of her life in Russia. Maria was the only friend she'd ever had and that begun back when she was a schoolgirl in England. _Natasha Romanoff, star student in Vaganova for five full years and yet hadn_ _'_ _t managed to make one single friend,_ she thought bitterly to herself. In her sixteen years in Russia, few people called her Natasha. She had been okay getting along with her teachers and classmates, but she had never really fit in. Maria was the girl who would call her real name and chat about just everything in the letters, while her only poor little friendship-like relationship in was with a girl named Yelena.

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-Flashback-

' _ **Hi**_ _._ _'_ _Natasha listened to her own voice and it sounded_ _strange_ _. The younger girl sitting across her stared up from her food plate and fixed her eyes on the redhead._

' _ **Hmm I**_ _ **'**_ _ **m Natasha, in case you**_ _ **'**_ _ **re wondering who I am,**_ _ **'**_ __ _she_ _continued_ _speaking in Russian._ _S_ _he had got used to_ _eating_ _alone and was comfortable because she knew she could take care of herself. Nevertheless, when she saw_ _the_ _blonde who seemed a Year 1 sitting alone, she_ _couldn't_ _help feeling sad._ _S_ _he looked at the girl_ _'_ _s plate._

' _ **You should be eating more. A piece of bread and a cup of tea? You**_ _ **'**_ _ **ll faint in class.**_ _'_ _She was way too familiar with the hunger at one a.m. and it was another hour before lunch. Maria was always sitting in the room, drawing pictures of ladies in fancy costumes, and Natasha once complained that she had no idea how_ _exhausting_ _it was to dance all day._

' _ **I know about you. You**_ _ **'**_ _ **re already famous in my year. I**_ _ **'**_ _ **m Yelena. And if I eat more, I**_ _ **'**_ _ **ll grow fat.**_ _ **'**_ _The blonde girl shrugged after a while of silence._

' _ **No you won**_ _ **'**_ _ **t. You should really eat more. Do you want a chocolate bar or something? A nice, occasional bite**_ _ **won't**_ _ **hurt anything. Frankly it cheers you up so you have more energy this afternoon to perform better in class.**_ _ **'**_ _Natasha showed her a chocolate bar she received from Maria as a Christmas gift._

' _ **I wonder if you even have a chocolate bar, and no. Thanks, though.**_ _'_ _Yelena shook her head._

 _And after that she noticed the other girl in the cafeteria and corridors from time to time and they chatted as they walked to the hall together, but_ _that_ _girl still looked too thin, even for a ballerina. They shared stories about their own classes and Natasha tried persuading her to eat more. But eventually, she_ _didn't_ _eat much, or talk much, and Natasha understood. She guessed the younger girl might have some sort of eating disorder and she just hoped the blonde would learn to care for herself before she enrolled to the higher levels._

-Flashback ends-

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'Natasha? You alright?'

She tilted her head up, alarmed at the sudden noise.

'Yeah. Nothing. I was just thinking about my days as a student.' She said calmly and carefully let out just a tiny bit of nostalgia. Clint nodded.

'You want some chocolate? Chocolate cheers one up!'

 _Of course chocolate cheers one up._ 'Later.'

'What were you thinking? The coming season? You looked worried but you shouldn't, really.'

'Since when am I worried about performances?' Natasha quickly wiped off whatever-was-on-her-face and felt like her technique had just been questioned. 'Better leave those thoughts to rehearsals. Why are you so sappy this morning? Are _you_ worrying about the Season?'

'Then what was it? Family or friends? I don't know you've got friends.' Clint ignored the sarcasm and replied in a faked surprised tone. Natasha inhaled and lowered her upper body, burying her face between her arms again. Clint regretted what he said immediately.

'Alright alright I'm sorry but you know what you don't exactly talk to people here.' He said softly and tried to figure out what was she thinking right now.

'There wasn't much to talk about.'

'Neither do I have many friends. I mean when I said everybody needed someone I meant it. I get along with everyone in school and in the company pretty muck okay, but Steve is the only friend I can complain and chatter about all kinds of stuff to. And before that I was doing well on my own, so I probably get your feeling, just maybe.' Clint shrugged. Sometimes if he wished to get to know about others, he needed to share his own story first.

'In my school they were strict. There was a girl who ate too little and I offered her a chocolate bar, but she wouldn't take it. She always needed to see a doctor.'

'How is she now?' Clint asked with concern in his voice.

'I don't know. She made it to Year 7 and graduated. But she was too skinny and that didn't do any good to her spirit.' She recalled.

'You eat very little, too.' He pointed out.

'No I eat everything I want!' She protested. 'That pavlova cake, now also chocolate pancakes. Salads and soups are healthier, which is why I choose them most of the time.'

'How comes you stay so disciplined every second? Never mind. That'll help when I need to hold you over my head. Not talking probably saves energy, too, aha.'

'Like I've said, I love Odile. She's wonderful. I don't know how much attention a male dancer pays to the 48 fouettes, but since you like her too, you can probably feel that. When it's done properly, all clean and not sloppy, it's god's work.' She explained as confusion began to form on Clint's face. 'My life has to be neat and not sloppy, but I think you understand that a long time ago.'

'Yep. And nothing can go wrong with that on stage. You'll make it through all the turns and more. Be my friend, Natasha! Just so everything goes smoothly offstage, too.' He answered cheerfully.

'Why do you want to be friends with me? I ain't no fun.' She said drily. He had beautiful techniques and was expressive, and she thought it was okay to like him, but sometime things could get…annoying.

'But you are the best.' He exclaimed. 'And I _like_ you, dancer and otherwise. Don't you want to be friends with me? I'm charming you know!' He flashed a cheeky grin at her and walk to the barre. For heaven's sake he'd love to spend the day just watching her stretch her beautiful arms and legs, but he needed some good stretching, too. After yesterday he was sure the silence wouldn't feel weird anymore and he now knew both of them are good at dealing with it.

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'Seriously you're not nervous? I got a bit of that every time I work with a new partner for the first time.' Clint asked her as he watched her circling the pale peach-coloured ribbons around her left ankle—on boy did she have sexy ankles—and tying a tiny knot before tucking it inside the ribbon.

'If anything goes wrong, we'll do it again. Or else it's you to blame. Are you trying to hint that I should be worried?' She snapped. The performance on 19, September was going to be her debut at Lincoln Centre as a company member instead of a guest dancer, and of course she was nervous. A full theatre of audience would be staring at her for an hour and a half, and her colleagues back in Russia were waiting to either congratulate her or laugh their asses off. She finally decided to be honest with herself and stopped whispering 'it's any normal rehearsal' inside her head because it was not. She had to do her best and she had to go through everything smoothly from the very beginning.

'Nope if there is any difficulty it'll be no one's fault. Blame the fact I have never danced with you before. Blame the company directors for arranging you a different partner last time you got here.' Even though there was a slightly uncomfortable feeling when she almost implied that she didn't trust her, he didn't show it. After all, it was _almost_. Instead, he decided to overlook her impatience and shook his head, 'no need to worry, Tasha.'

'Wait no you can't just call me Tasha—hey!' Natasha was left shocked as he went off to have some words with their instructor. Jacqueline Delune was well-respected in the company and in the ballet world. Natasha got up and walked to the other end of the room to greet the smiling old lady and pianist.

Both of them were way too familiar with the story and choreography, and understand what kind of emotion they should feel at each state, so there wasn't a long prep conversation and they started almost immediately. When Clint hold the metal 'bow' in his hands, turned around and took a deep breath before walking to the central part of the rehearsal room, Natasha's face was filled with a mixture of sorrow and uncertainty already.

The emotions rushed to her face as if she was Odette herself, and the dancer needn't another second to think about them. Her torso moved the way she remembered and practised the day before and all the days before that, all those days she spent dreaming about becoming the swan princess, or more precisely, getting the part so she could be Odile, too. In this scene, the Prince went hunting and met Odette. It wasn't a renowned one like the black swan pas de deux, the pas de quatre in Act II, or the dying swan scene, and she played Odette in it, but it was lovely. Natasha liked it because the audience got to meet Odette for the first time, which meant it was really important to play well so that the audience got the first impression right. It was extra essential this time, of course, since people would greet and assess her as the new prima ballerina of the company.

Natasha often thought Odette was the boring one of the twins—the dark one was always the interesting one, especially in a story with a fine line between fair and evil, like this one she was performing right now—but even then she really felt for the girl. She tried to imagine a helpless girl who got hit by fortune and it was none of her fault. Like, a little bit heavier than the teachers desired wasn't a fault, but a dancer was gotta pay for it. Being struck by a magic spell was not the princess' fault, but she was gotta suffer from it. Natasha was not only a ballerina, but a swan as well. Her arms were her wings. Odette was alone and she was in pain, and there she walked onto the stage.

Clint walked till he was right behind her. Secretly he admired the delicate tiny muscles on her back when she waved her arms and thought about how similar this was to the plot—he was attracted by her, just as the Prince was attracted by Odette. The difference, however, was that he already knew her, or at least a part of her, and he was attracted to not just her beauty, but all of her. And because of that, he knew this would go well.

He walked to the front. Natasha looked at him in shock and backed off, her arms, or rather her wings, moving swiftly and shaky.

 _Oh no, do_ _n'_ _t be afraid of me._

Natasha shook her head and turned away, her eyes large with fear.

 _You have a bow! You_ _'_ _re a hunter, aren_ _'_ _t you? Don_ _'_ _t hurt me please!_

Clint felt his heart clench at the sight of the heartbroken expressions Natasha was wearing. It was strange, because as hard as he'd tried to be Siegfried and fall in love with the princess at first sight, he had never feel the need to like the _dancer_ who played Odette. He had been teamed up with some very good female dancers and grown fond of them through rehearsals, while he'd also had partners who made him kept their communication time minimum once off stage. The classicals were all pair work. Despite that Clint knew how to get along with others well enough to work well, he had never messed up the line between acting and private life. Some people just liked to sort stuff into career-related and personal piles.

There wasn't time to think it all over. This moment he was on stage, and he was Prince Siegfried. Everything Natasha-related needed to wait until later. His eyes chased her as she fled towards the other side of the rehearsal room, her eyes whispering, _who are you? What do you want?_

His body followed a second later. _Hey dear, I_ _'_ _m not going to hurt you. Be reassured, please._

Natasha moved to the music and Clint wasn't sure if he really saw that quick flash of confusion in her green eyes. _Please don_ _'_ _t come close. Leave me alone. Please._

He moved with her, around her, placing his hand on her waist every now and then as she turned rounds across the stage. _No, I_ _'_ _m not letting you go._

It was the first scene and their characters barely knew each other, and there wouldn't be much physical intimacy throughout the whole performance, but he couldn't help thinking about the feeling of his hand on her waist. It was normal and he'd done it a million times before, but at that moment the girl in front of him wasn't Odette, but Natasha. And at that moment he wasn't at lost. He knew what exactly he wanted to do. He just wanted to pull her a _tiny_ bit closer. _Stay professional, Clint Barton._

Prince Siegfried was still worried and stunning by the beauty in front of him, so Clint only allowed a little fond smile in his heart. That woman came to rehearse for the white swan in black leotard. It was either the snow white stiff tutu was enough to help her get into the role, or she didn't need corresponding costumes to create the mood at all. Wow.

A group of arabesques, and he gently grabbed her wrist and guided her to the centre of the room.

 _My fair lady, I_ _have no_ _idea who you are or where you are from, but one thing remains true, that my heart belongs to you_ _—_

 _Just leave me alone. I have stories and secrets that are too sad to tell_ _…_

 _Do tell, my lady._

Clint watched as Natasha danced in that delicate, plaintive way of hers, telling her destiny to the man in front of her.

 _Tell me about you, Natasha. Tell me just about anything. I want to know about you,_ _Tasha._

 _Just a bit would be nice._

' _Cause I_ _'_ _m not letting you go either._

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Clint nodded at Mme. Delune as the music slowly stopped. The instructor approached to exchange her thoughts with them. A bit more explanation of the emotions and some adjustments of the movements to better express them, and the lady called an end to the class, leaving the two alone to ponder on their own. Natasha said see-you-tomorrow to the pianist, and took a while to think about the improvements, before turning to Clint and asked if he was ready for another trial.

'Actually I was thinking about doing that second dance again. You look great in the first one.' He offered whole-heartedly. He had known that working with a world renowned ballerina would be a pleasant experience, but he hadn't expected that Natasha Romanoff was this amazing.

'Thanks.' The corner of her mouth tilted up a bit just like every time people praised her performance. 'I've got the music on my phone and a mini speaker in my bag. Good?'

'Great.' Clint watched Natasha go to her dance bag beside the piano and pull out the speaker and phone. He took a deep breath since what he was going to do could really make their partnership awkward. 'You're not a hugger, are you?'

'No,' she fixed her eyes on the phone screen and muttered. 'It's funny how I have no problem with the _trust-falls_ when you can feel my problem with hugs.'

'I noticed you were a teeny tiny bit stiff when I hugged you when rehearsing for that dance, the second one. It's intimate, I understand.'

'It is. But I assure you it won't affect the final performance. That was our first rehearsal, you said that yourself.' She looked up at him and wasn't a bit surprised that he pointed it out, even though she'd tried her best to hide her own emotions while dancing. Some of her past partners and teachers had talked to her about that, too. All she could do is to wait for time to make things comfortable.

Clint's heart ached for those words. Everyone in this room this afternoon and everyone who had ever worked with Natasha should know how hard-working she was, yet her words made him feel like they were all pushing her a bit too much, and that was _not_ right.

'Oh no, Tasha. That wasn't what I was trying to say. God knows I was extremely grateful when Phil said I was going to work with you, and he talked about spending time to know my partner. I mean no offense, but you are kinda the first introvert I've worked with, oddly, so I don't know a lot of things, and you should really talk more. Like, I like Tasha, but if you don't like it then Natasha's cute too.' He added after sensing her shift ever so slightly when he called that nickname.

If one thing was sure, it was that she was no longer nervous about the rehearsal itself. The name 'Natasha' itself was already a nickname for the Russian name 'Natalia'. A nickname for nickname left her a little stunned. 'In some way Tasha feels even more intimate than that dance, but I like it. Natalia Alianova is how many people call me. It's too complicated.'

'I like that name too. Long, but has its own elegance. But I guess I'll just call you Tasha, okay?'

Something suspiciously warm was pooling into her belly as he said her name. 'Yeah.'

'Is it okay that I hug you, as the Prince?'

'Yes. Stand behind me, and we'll do it as practice.'

Before he knew it Natasha was standing in front of him, her phone plugged onto the speaker sitting on the piano bench and her back merely an inch away from his chest. He loosely wrapped his arms around her tiny frame. She tilted her head up to look right into his eyes, her face filled with emotions again as the notes began to flow out of the device and fill in the room.

A few small steps and words exchanged using their torsos. The battements, pirouettes, arabesques, lifts and more. The arm movements and facial expressions. Then there was always separation before they came close again. She was in an attitude position with one of her legs lifting to the back and bent at the knee, and after that, for several beats she was held close to his chest and he rocked her gently—of course, the Prince and his lover. _Right?_

 _Arms, Natalia! You have beautiful legs and now what about your other body parts?_

The voice of her old instructor rang in the back of her mind. _F_ _ocus on the dance, not your daydreams, for_ _Jesus'_ _sake!_ She checked her neck and back, the turnout and extension, felt if muscles were doing their job in the right places and frankly she didn't have time to think of anything else other than that but damn, that was an intimate move. And Natasha didn't like intimacy. People assumed being physically close to others should no longer bother her after so many years of dancing and partnering, but the truth was, it did. Emotionally she had no idea. She'd carry _that_ to hell, though.

His arms were draped around her, his chin almost resting over the top of her hair, and the faint scent of his shampoo unsettled her even more. She slowing inhaled, taking in his minty scent. They were going sort it out sooner or later if things kept going on like this, but now she just wanted to cherish the time when nothing was required except good performances. She finished her last few steps and turned to him. 'That's it for today, you think?'

'This time is better, if you ask me.' He tried to form the warmest smile ever so as to see her relaxed. 'You want me to wait for you at the door? It's dark outside and maybe it'll be safer if I can walk you to your apartment.'

It had been strange, to walk to a bakery with him after work.

It would be even stranger, to walk home tonight with him beside her. When was the last time she went home accompanied?

It just _generally_ felt strange, to have someone caring for her. _Is that what he_ _'_ _s trying to do?_ She wasn't even sure.

'Thank you.' She nodded. Then just as he was walking to his dressing room, she called.

'Hey.'

'Yes?'

'Thank you.'

He didn't know what to say. In fact, he didn't see why he was thanked, at all. For giving her room? For not asking more? Those were not good enough reason for him to be thanked. Clint Barton the dancer was good at expressing and acting, but right now he hoped he wasn't. He wanted to tell her he understood personal space and the story was for later. Instead he sighed.

'No problem, Tasha.'


	3. When the Feathers Settled down

**A** **uthor** **'** **s Note:** Thank you for the review, follows and favourites!

Here is the third chapter of my story! I'm sorry it's a bit short. Hope you like it :)

Please read and review. Thank you!

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 _They say the best part of dancing is the moment you walk onto the stage. The curtain is up and you are on, music notes dancing around the theatre and into your heart._

 _W_ _ell, then the curtain call must be the second best part._

Don't get her wrong—Natasha enjoyed every second on stage, especially now with Clint being part of it…But the audience. The performance was for the audience more than anyone else. Hours of training, sweating, studying and weeping, and _c_ _'_ _est le moment_. The moment she'd done pouring every drop of emotion out. The moment she knew that not only she loved it, a full theatre of people had loved it, too.

She took a peek at Clint beside her, the Prince in a loose renaissance shirt and white opaque tights. His right arm was thrown up in the third position and there was a huge grin on his face but most importantly, he was grinning at _her_.

She tilted an eyebrow at him, tugging the bunch of flowers tighter to her chest and looked back at the audience. _This is your moment, Natasha._

She whispered bye-bye to the nervousness that had threatened to choke her dead and welcomed the warmness. Only then did she realise how much sweat was clinging to her torso. There was a while she didn't want to think of anything but the safe, steady feeling in her stomach. Her legs were shaky and she couldn't stop taking in deep breaths for a few minutes, but she was truly, truly happy and her grin was truly, truly wide.

Someone touched the back of her left hand, followed by a warm voice.

'Beautiful, Tasha.'

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'Congratulations again, you two.' Phillip Coulson said on their way to the after party. 'You all right Natasha?'

'Yes. Tonight has been going on pretty well so far, Mr. Coulson.' Natasha nodded. 'Hopefully somebody will want those shoes I signed just now.'

'Oh please you may call me Phil if you want,' Coulson offered. 'Last time you were here you told me you didn't like the after party too much, if I recall correctly?'

'Thank you, I'm comfortable with the mister-thing. And yes, it's too much noise and smile.' She shook her head as they walked into the hall.

'You really do favour solitude, don't you?' Clint asked, watching Coulson walk off to greet some businessmen at the far end of the room.

'Long story short, I hate after parties.'

'Why?' He asked curiously.

'I said long story short.'

'Okay,' he gave in. 'Phil just pointed at me—by the way, you can really just call him Phil, Mr. Coulson sounds so weird—I guess he's about to introduce us to those people over there. The good thing is that he never asks the dancers to give a speech or something. That can be annoying even for me, duh.'

'Then I should really thank him later.' Her tone was cool while she smiled at a man who presented her with another bunch of flowers and congrats. 'Coulson is my instructor as well, and respect is necessary whatever you Americans may think—'

'Mr. Barton and Ms. Romanoff!' Coulson waved at them. 'Mr. Anthony Stark, an old friend of the director. And this is Ms. Virginia Potts. Mr. Stark and Ms. Potts, may I present to you Mr. Barton and Ms. Romanoff.' Natasha recalled the Stark Tower she'd seen when she'd first arrived in the city.

Coulson said something about having a chat with Mrs. Delume before he left them with the couple. 'Just call me Pepper! The performance was amazing and we loved it.' The woman with strawberry blond hair said excitedly.

'Pep has been looking forward to tonight since she had Jarvis book the tickets two months ago,' the businessman circled his arm around his partner's waist lovingly.

'Well thank you. We're glad you like the performance.' Clint replied.

'Ms. Romanoff you must tell me more about it! It's so nice to take a break from the usual mess at the company.' Pepper exclaimed. 'Do forgive me if this sounds boring, but is there any particular scene you like? When I was little, my mum used to play the music of that pas de quatre. That seems to remain my favourite.'

'You should call me Natasha if I am to call you Pepper,' Natasha felt surprisingly easy towards the woman in front of her, 'I love that clip too, and almost all the Odile scenes. Maybe it's odd, but I've always enjoyed playing that part.' She glanced at Clint, knowing he was thinking the exact same thing as she was, and smirked. His hand was on the small of her back before he could help it and a second later, after he noticed a teeny, tiny shift, he held back and his arm now hung in the air, an inch away from the drapery black gown.

'I've been so lucky to have Ms. Romanoff as my partner—she's wonderful to work with. We seldom have rehearsals that are open to the public, but you can know that we definitely had a great time, or at least I did.'

Natasha raised an eyebrow at him, amused. 'How sweet of you, Mr. Barton.'

'Indeed. Actually we are thinking about donating some money to the school fund, thought it might help with some of the programmes.'

'I'm sure the company and school would be grateful for the help, Ms. Potts.' Clint said, a bit concerned himself. 'Now, if you'll excuse me…' he bowed slightly, and then whispered to Natasha, 'I'll be back in a minute, don't worry.'

'I'm guessing Mr. Barton's a pleasant partner, too, isn't he?' Pepper asked after Clint wandered out of the room and Tony disappeared from the crowd as well ('Had to do with his science stuff,' Pepper later explained.).

'He is.' Natasha had no idea why she would want to smile at the mentioning of his name, but she did anyway, 'it's so nice of you to give the school programmes some support. This could mean a lot to the students and teachers.'

'Well we're glad then. Now you should probably go there,' the blonde tilted her head towards Coulson, who was standing beside a tall, slender lady whom Natasha recognised almost immediately—a former ballerina well-respected by her. 'Excuse me I've got to meet that lady, Ms. Razumova over there. Nice talking to you, Pepper. Have a good time this evening.'

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'Hey, hopefully you're not angry for dumping you there in the middle of the conversation?' She turned as his voice rang in her private dressing room and found him leaning on the doorframe, his make-up already washed off.

'I found Ms. Potts rather pleasant to talk to. Though it was good to thank her again for the money, too.' She explained.

'That's great. Phil thinks highly of Ms. Potts, by the way. Guess he's known her much longer than we do. I've never seen Tony Stark before but they looked sorta cute together. You want me to walk you home or I can call a taxi for you?'

'What is it that you would want to walk with me after such a long, exhausting day? I am boring.' She stared at the damp make-up remover wipe that was now covered in golden sparkly powder.

'Taking a walk with you has this beautiful soothing ability…sounds really appealing now. Or you want a taxi?'

'A walk is fine. One of the many benefits of living near your workplace.' She damped a clean wipe, hoping to scrub off the entire heavy eye makeup this time. 'I need another 15 minutes, though. Need to peel this off first. Come in and sit for a while maybe.'

'Oh, should I feel honoured to be invited in!' He teased, walking to the chair behind the makeup desk. 'Shall I wait here?'

'Yeah, that's okay.' She leant against the table and grabbed another cotton wipe. 'So what do you think of it?'

'Loved it.'

'Really? Can't really know if someone meant it when they say they've enjoyed the partnership.'

'I enjoyed it thoroughly. Like, _thoroughly._ Seriously Tasha I can't even imagine when people don't enjoy it.'

'Oh I can be very difficult.' She tried very hard to hide that smile but it eventually broke out to be a wide grin. Clint loved when she grinned because privately she rarely offered anybody anything more than a smile out of courtesy. He loved when her expression softened and he could saw sparkles dancing in her eyes.

'You _could_ _'_ _ve_ been. But you didn't, Tasha.' He sat there as politely as he could so as not to disturb her but to tell the truth? He was having a hard time not to reach out for her face. 'Don't even know what to say.'

'Thank you.' She turned to look at him. She had heard sweet words but this sounded like the best compliment ever. 'I need to pack my stuff and will be good to go.'

'Okay.'

They shared this comfortable silence, her busy collecting her makeup and sewing gadgets, him trying to focus on the Svetlana Zakharova poster on the wall.

'Well.' She held up her dance bag. 'Are we going to your dressing room to pick up your belongings now?'

'I'll go get my stuff. Wait a min,' he ran out of the room and she rolled her eyes.

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Seconds later he reappeared at her door. 'Let's go.'

'You think it's possible to stop by Steve's bakery at this hour and grab something?'

He stopped and stared at her.

'What?' She asked wearily.

'Did you just tell a joke? You are not difficult at _all_ , Tasha.' He shook his head smugly.

'It was only half a joke when I said that! Mostly because I like him, probably more than you, and don't you want to share with him about tonight too?' Crap. She was being soft and letting him in.

He saw an excellent opportunity to offer an invitation as they reached the front gate. 'As far as I know Steve goes home before nine and it's really late now. But if you want we could always have breakfast there, if you'd like that, and since you live quite close to that place.'

'Maybe.' She said coolly while her instinct yelled at her to scream yes. 'Oh I forgot to tell Steve those pancakes were yummy. Thank you for bringing them to me before you ate them all, too.'

'Second joke in a row,' his voice tilted up. 'No. Actually I would eat them up, if I hadn't just had my breakfast.'

She snorted, but couldn't help the smile. 'Sometimes I have no idea how you are still so…you know.' she sighed heavily. The premiere emotionally wore her out every time.

'I am just as tired as you are, if that's what you're trying to ask,' he said and they stopped to wait for the traffic light. 'How lucky you are to have a flat just about fifteen minutes down the street.'

'Where do you live?' she asked, suddenly aware that he knew where she live almost from the very beginning and she had no clue about where he called home.

'Not very far from the theatre either, just the opposite direction.' He gestured backwards. 'But it's worth it to go down here to grab a bite every morning, though.'

'Now I understand…' she smiled. 'What's your favourite baking good?'

'Muffins. Just about every flavour. You? Know you love those berry-filled ones and chocolate.'

'Yeah, the berries. You don't really have them in Russia, especially during the colder months.'

'But you like the sweet and sour taste. I like them, too. Oh you'd better be prepared 'cause Steve is so curious about this performance and—' _this thing between us_. He paused before spilling it out and regretting, 'nothing. He likes ballet, you know. Goes to the Nutcracker every year. We have another performance next week, and then you're going to England, I think?'

'Yup. The season's opening gala at the Royal Opera House.'

'I envy you. It's super beautiful there during these months.'

'Of course,' her tone was full of pride, 'but I've never been back after I got into Vaganova.'

'You still have any family members back home?' He asked curiously.

'Even if I do, I don't recall. Shortly after my mother passed away,' she inhaled and exhaled deeply, nodding to his apologies. 'A Russian friend of hers, Aunt Cath, who took over the guardianship, put me in a boarding school in Bath where I can do academics while taking pre-vocational classes after school. Then because she didn't really have time to look after me and I became friends with a girl named Maria, I spent all my vocation time at her home. Quite a lot memories there.'

'Is Maria still in the UK? You can meet her this time if she does!' He still remembered how she wouldn't speak a word about it when they met in that rehearsal room for the first time, and felt so grateful that she chose to trust him with that information. Their after-rehearsal session had become a regular thing, too.

'Yes. She has a place in this city as well though. Double nationality stuff. Have you been to England before?'

'Once. Last year I was invited to Paris and after the show I got a day-off. Thought about visiting the Versailles but eventually spent it in London for the performance at Royal Opera House that night.'

'Always the dancer, I see.'

'Can't really change that.' He shook his head and busied himself by searching for something in his dance bag. They'd spent too much time in ballet classes to change their priority in life.

And then they just walked, Clint occasionally guiding her a bit closer when a stranger passed by (it was nearly midnight in NYC) and she tried her very best not to lean in to him. It'd been about a month since they first met and somehow she had developed some kind of a friendship with him and she liked it. She knew he liked it, too, which was why she didn't want to interrupt it. Probably it was best to leave it where it was now. Wasn't the centre of her life ballet? Wasn't this a pleasant moment? Hadn't she already changed so much since a month ago?

It was close to midnight and under the reddish sky of New York City, she was as stress-free as she could be. Tonight she demonstrated her excellent techniques and showed the world she was awesome no matter what company she worked for. It was time like this could she stop replaying every movement in the choreography and think of something else, and she used to like it so much. She didn't know anymore now. If she assessed her situation of the past one month, she was going to tell herself about how she spoke that much more than she'd planned to; she was going to face the fact that she could almost hear Clint saying 'I'm waiting for you on stage' from the way he looked at her before the curtain rose and he had to go. After a life devoted to her profession and far too much energy spent growing up, she wasn't ready to acknowledge anything. She'd grown tired of emotions long ago and hadn't wanted any of them for a while since she was accepted into Mariinsky. How she wished things could remain the same as every other partnering experience.

Except that he was different. He had been more than a dancer to her. Despite that she had no idea whether it was a good thing or not, they were more than partners. Everyone knew there was something. She knew that too. She told herself she wasn't letting people in like he did and that was mostly true. She liked Phil Coulson, for he had been super reliable (remember that she didn't trust people that easily) and didn't trying to pressure her into anything, but everyone else were just perfect normal colleagues. Clint was the patient one who waited for her to adjust to their partnership. He was the one who care for her more than a partner should and whom she had grown to care for, too.

Damn she _was_ changing. She didn't want that, nor did she want to admit that. Blame God for making her so stubborn.

They arrived at the building and she danced two steps to be facing him. All of a sudden, she realised how close she was with him already. Then he tugged her closer and hugged her, as Clint Barton, for the first time. Somehow it was that kind of bear hug you gave to a friend: he threw one arm over her shoulder and the other around her waist, burying his nose in her red locks and breathing in the herbal scent of her hair spray, and she went still for a moment. His voice rang over the top of her head again, and she felt something was tucked into her arms.

'It was a nice walk, Tasha. Good night.'

Then just as that, he turned and left. She glanced down. A plush animal. A little swan. She smiled at the warmth of it, and that smile only grew wider when she saw the label.

 _Thank you for being my partner. It is truly, truly great to friends with you. Thanks._

 _Clint Barton_

 _P.S. My apologies for the long night. Have a good rest._

She smiled. Good night, Clint.


	4. Friends

**Author** **'** **s Notes:** Thank you for the reviews and favourites!

The name Lopa comes from Lopakina.

I'm sorry for the delay. Hope you'll like this chapter and please R&R!

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Natasha stared out of the French doors in her hotel room. She absent-mindedly watched a couple taking a walk in the tiny garden below her window, trying hard to go through her schedule for a third time in that day. That was probably the most efficient way to calm her mind, she figured.

There were so many things on her mind right now. The two rehearsal periods she had today had ended well. She had just met her dance partner yesterday evening and he seemed a fine gentleman. She didn't need to be attracted to every partner she'd had but this partnership looked doable, and she'd go with that. After all, Kitri was probably her second favourite role and that helped greatly when the rehearsal time was simply not enough. Today was Tuesday and the show was on this Saturday night. _Wooosh._ She didn't know how many people knew about her or like her here in the UK, but she was determined to do her best to impress the people of her hometown. There was probably going to be sharp critics in the audience too. You never knew.

Then she thought about where she would be eating tonight, for there hadn't been an invitation and she did prefer that quite and no-need-to-communicate kind of dinner. And what about the touring after the show? She had three days to herself after the Opening Gala, and she wished to take a walk around the city and do something else besides the classes in the afternoon.

How was Clint not here? If he had been here, she would show him around and maybe took him to Bath, and tell him all the anecdotes about the town she loved so much. She would take him to places she grew up in, instead of talking to him via Skype. She turned away from the light and spotted the picture of her and Clint taken on the premiere night of their Swan Lake. She'd considered framing it but hadn't had time to do so. And Steve. Last night she'd discovered a nice confectionery and taken pictures so he wouldn't laugh about the Englishmen's cooking skills all the time. _Uhh._

If they were here, she might introduce them to Maria, at least formally so. She had called her the night before she left New York and they'd decided to meet in the lobby, and then go to a small café somewhere near Covent Garden and close to her hotel. Natasha had been looking forward to this little reunion for quite some time—despite that they stayed in touch and wrote emails all the time, it had been almost four years since Maria's visit to Russia to attend her graduation ceremony. Last time they'd met, Maria had been pregnant and now, she had the loveliest three-year-old in the whole world. Natasha didn't tell Clint about that since it was private, and he didn't ask. It'd been a long time since last time she'd have to make a decision about such matters and she was out of practice. Maybe she would just let it slip out like any normal person would do. That didn't count as being over intimate, right?

A brunette in red walked into her sight and interrupted her thought. _Aww_ still that girl who made a ballet bun better than most ballerinas and tended to keep her hair that way. She swiftly grabbed her purse and went down to meet her friend.

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'Maria!' Natasha walked into the lobby.

'Oh Nat,' the brunette turned and smiled at her old friend. She extended her arms to give the redhead a gentle hug.

'It's so nice to see you. Where's Lopa? You said she was with you in London?' Natasha asked as she was released from the hug.

'She was with her nanny. That musical student has taken her to a classical rehearsal. Lopa somehow loves music,' Maria replied, her warm dark brown eyes shining with excitement. 'I told her she could come with me when you were back from Bath. You're going there, I assume?'

'Yes. Maybe just a day or an afternoon. It's not like I want to try out the sulphur water or visit the tea house. I just want to wander about and maybe stop by that Peter Rabbit souvenir house to check what's new.'

'Then you'll have to bring something from that place for Lop too. She is having a crush on that series.'

'Okay. It's a relief that she likes music since I can see absolutely no sense of music in you.'

'Haha,' the other woman replied dryly, 'Remember how you insisted on my bringing back ballet DVDs with me? I figured it was better music than my chattering about different fabrics. Anyway I'll be in London for a few more weeks for this project.' She sighed. 'Enough about me. Tell me about you, Nat. How's the new company?'

 _Swan Lake. Lincoln Centre. Phil Coulson and Mme. Delume. Her partner. Clint. And oh, her daily schedule now include a certain bakery too. She_ _'_ _s got to mention Steve to her sometime for two artists must have a lot to talk about._ 'Hasn't regretted my decision yet,' she shrugged.

'When will we see you with a plus-one?

Natasha groaned. 'Why is everyone so interested in my personal life?'

'Nope nope. Just asking. Sometimes a child can make you old I guess. Hell you got rid of exams and graduating process three years earlier than I did, and _I_ am the one who feels ten years older than you.' Maria shook her head and smiled. She wasn't regretting or complaining anything at all and Natasha knew it.

'Lopa is the best kid you can ever be given. I grew up with fellow dancers-to-be, most of which were of the same age as me you know. Then when it comes to actual performances, you can only see little faces in the audience from a distance.'

'All right, but we are not talking about my daughter ten seconds ago. I've seen the pictures of your premiere. You looked great! Lop mentioned several times about seeing you dance some day.'

'Thank you. Clint has helped greatly in this production.'

'Ah he's the partner, isn't he?' The brunette looked at her with the same curious expression she'd seen on Steve's face.

'Yes, and he's just my partner.'

Maria raised an eyebrow.

'Fine. A lil' bit of a friend, too.' The redhead admitted.

'Okay,' Maria knew when to stop asking personal questions and that might be the reason they got along so well these years. 'Shall we leave for some late afternoon tea, and I'm telling everything happening in town.'

Natasha couldn't wait till later that night when she could open her laptop.

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'Hi.'

Clint felt much relieved—for some unknown reason—as soon as Natasha's voice entered the room. 'Hey yourself. I finished up early so I'm already at home. You want the camera on or we can just talk?'

'I wouldn't call myself presentable right now,' Natasha sat down at the little desk beside her bed, drying her hair with a towel. 'How's the work today?'

The woman had this talent in keeping everything so brief. 'Good. I ran into Phil and he thanked us for the two performances. The director came and told me about the school's fund, and it seems Mr. Stark is pretty generous.'

'Or he's just doing it because it makes the lady happy. Either way it was indeed a good thing.' Natasha understood how important it was for a student who wanted to be a professional, and she knew that at some point she would have to help her own school, too.

Clint chuckled. 'You bet. I think Ms. Potts is pretty likable, though. How's your day?'

'Four hours of rehearsal and two classes in the opera house. And I had to spend some time studying the plot and characters. Exhausted, but you know what it's like when there's not enough time. I went for dinner with Maria tonight.' Surprisingly she liked sharing her day with him, being chatty. Natasha Romanoff didn't share much, but with him it was different. It had always been different ever since she had first met him in that quite rehearsal room.

'How was that?' For sure he would ask about the dinner since he had to do so out of courtesy, but the bigger part of the reason was that he really wanted to know about her.

'It went well. We caught up with things that weren't told through emails. I talked about my life in NYC and she chatted about her daughter. As we were leaving she invited me to her home when this gala was over.' She wrapped a shawl—pale pink as it was the only colour when she saw it in the store—around her shoulder and worked her fingers through her locks. It felt _heavenly_ to let her hair down after it'd been tucked into a tight bun for a whole day.

'Sounds awesome. Maria has a daughter? I thought you were at the same age,' he asked mildly.

 _Yup. Congrats Romanoff. First step on being a normal person._ Now she just had to wait and see if she liked it.'She's one year older than me. She finished her study and raised the child with her parents help. Always the tough girl.'

'Yeah,' he agreed. 'Did she bring her kid today? We don't exactly get to meet children while spending all the sober time at the theatre.'

'Nope, but since I am visiting her, I'll see her. Finally, in person. I'm no longer Aunty Nat on her mother's phone screen, score.' She pretended to be really excited about that and Clint found it so very cute. 'Miss your partner?'

'Why would I?'

'How can you not?'

'I don't know. Is there any particular reason, Mr. Barton?'

'Is there any particular reason not to? I'm not your guest, woman, check the ticket information and you'll see we have another five shows before the season ends.' He grinned. He was pretty sure they'd pair up the next season and the season after that and all the remaining ones out there since everyone seemed to like the arrangement so far, but if he wasn't, he would be very glad to finish this one with her.

'As if I'm not aware of that, Mr. Self-Esteem.' She reached out for her shoe bag, searching for new pointe shoes to sew. 'If I think about all the partners I've been paired with—and there's a lot of them—you think I actually have time to dance?'

'Good try, Romanoff,' Clint didn't want to push her any more. 'You plan to see any show while you're there?'

'Maybe I want to hang around outside the theatre for a bit longer...Maria said there's an Alice in Wonderland musical coming up though. The girl loves music.'

'My grandma brought me to see the Nutcracker when I was five. Pretty much the reason for choosing this career.'

'When I was little, they said I should do gymnastics and I just ended up in barre classes. We went to see ballet performances every year and actually got to meet the dancers. Most of them we already knew, though. Never had a time when we were simple the audience and were allowed to enjoy the performance without studying every detail of it. I mean that wasn't even close to the point of taking a kid to watch ballet, really.'

He sighed. He was 24 and she was 21. They were forced to grow up too quickly to be children themselves. He liked kids, and wanted some one day, but hey, most of the young adults their age were new to their job field and didn't know a thing. They were different. They made the decision at 11. He knew he did it earlier, and he knew she did too.

'Tell me about the performance. How do you like Don Quixote?' he asked so as to get a lighter topic.

'The first role I've played is actually Kitri,' she reminisced, 'a pas de deux for the graduation performance.'

He smiled trying to imagine 17-year-old Natasha dancing the very grand pas de deux in the production. 'You like her? You two are so different.'

'I do. I like the whole thing,' she waved her arms as if she was still in rehearsal, 'so many people and all look very cheerful. Very Spanish.'

A pulse. 'And _how_ do you like cheerful?!'

'Hmm, excuse me. Did I say I hated cheerful?'

'…No.'

'Good. Then I _like_ cheerful. I just don't like _being_ very cheerful.'

'Fine don't forget to tell me about your cheerful rehearsals next time,' then he was reminded of the time difference. 'It must be pretty late there in London,' Clint glanced at the clock on his laptop and gasped, 'it's already midnight! I'll leave you to rest. I guess you have rehearsal session early tomorrow? You need to sleep more, Tash.'

'I know.'

'Okay. Sweet dreams Tash. Bye-bye.'

Natasha felt a warm liquid pouring into her body. _Bye-bye?_ Seriously? That man was so childish sometimes! A good actress she was, if one day he played Von Rothbart, or any villain-type character, she would never be able to look at him without thinking how un-evil he actually was. She didn't gave a damn about her personal life—if there actually was a personal life worthy of some attention—but _damn_ her career needed to remain absolutely simple. Feel, dance, perform.

She was always changing partners in Russia. All of them had thought of her as the dreamy partner until they started to rehearse and experience her aloofness themselves. It was too intimate to talk about things other than her work and she wasn't used to it, to having someone whom you shared your time before and after work with, but that was where they were. It felt weird, but if she was being honest with herself, it didn't felt wrong.

'Rest early. Bye.'

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On the night in Bath, she collapsed on the soft, comfy duvet, her laptop beside her arm. She looked out of the big window to see the sky. It was finally the deep blue tone, one of the few things she had missed about where she was trained. You just didn't have that kind of sky in New York. The diamond stars felt so far away and he felt so close.

They talked almost every night. She wanted to be briefed about what was new in New York, and he asked about her trip.

They chatted just about everything. She described her tea time and he promised to tell Steve about the recipes she newly discovered. He told her about the cool contemporary dance Coulson had found them, and suggested that they try it for fun if it didn't make it to the stage. She complained about why he would want to work even more when all she could think of at the end of the day was to go home and sleep, but secretly she thought it was a nice idea.

'But hey you've been dancing round classical ballet for a while now—I've seen your Giselle and Taming of the Shrew, by the way I liked your Katherina—and then you came and we went straight for Swan Lake, and now it's a clip from Don Quixote. Contemporaries are fun!'

She knew. She just liked the classicals a teeny tiny bit more. 'You like contemporaries?'

'It's more emotions and freedom.' He would say he liked contemporary from the very beginning—if running across the stage with his arms open counted as dance, 'don't you want to rid of the stiff tutus and gems every now and then?'

'Oh yes that I sure do,' she chuckled, 'just a leotard? Great.'

'I bet that one's black too.'

'Have you _ever_ seen any other colour? Besides that dove grey one? And that dark blue one?'

'No, but you can't do every role in black! Sometimes it just didn't fit into the mood board! Think of your partner, Tasha!'

'Well I feel fine doing Odette in black, so you'll probably have to cope with that.'

'Lucky you I've already learnt about that. But seriously why all black? Or dark colours?'

'I don't know…I used to wear nude too, but only in school classes and rehearsals because that was the dress code. But after I got into Mariinsky it's been mostly black. Well the good thing is that I have a huge collection of black leotards to choose from every day.'

'So they have mood too.' He started to understand.

'Yup. I think you get it…simple basic ones are perfect for normal days, but I think you've seen me in some others as well—the strappy backless one? That's for ill-mood days.'

'That shows off your back muscles nicely.' He commented.

She closed her eyes, knowing he could not see her stupid grin. 'That might be the exactly reason why I bought it.'

'Hey.' He exclaimed.

She stopped. Did that count as flirting? _Oh my god._

'There is no way I'd have a conversation with you on such a topic weeks ago.'

'Yeah but you knew we were going to be _very_ good friends,' he said smugly, images of icy yet cute Natasha popping into his mind.

But she didn't. He was wrong. She hadn't known anything. She'd been all fine with being alone and was in love with her career. And then she met Clint and somehow he didn't have a close friend in their workplace, either. So what happened? He met her and she met him, they started a conversation and decided to have more of that. Sounded pretty easy, didn't it?

'I don't know,' she acknowledged softly, 'I'm just glad that we're friends, and that you really do think so.'

If he wasn't missing her before, he sure was then. Or in other words, he just wished he could master the three Ds and apparate to wherever she was right then and hold her close. 'Hello I'm glad you're my friend too. Phil would most definitely kill me if not. He likes you a lot more, I know it!'

She laughed. It was probably the most peaceful time of her life. There was no need to worry about homework and scores, no need to deal with girls she didn't like at school, no need to go over the next day's agenda and check if she did any wrong just in case next morning she woke up and found herself in the middle of a swamp. She talked, commented, and listened.

She didn't turn on the camera because they were not close enough for her to show the exhaustion, and because that made her feel exposed. That wasn't a good idea at all.

'What are you doing now, if I may ask?' His voice broke the silence.

'Nothing. Staring up at the sky.'

'Then tell me about your sky.'

So half an hour later when he whispered sweet dreams into her ear, she grinned as if he could see him. She loved his voice; it was forever calming.

Everyday she dealt people and emotions but not everyday she dealt with such greeting the only the most intimate people said to each other. She was still getting used to hearing it and maybe, she would be able to say the same thing in return.

She had missed him, though you'd have to torture the words out of her mouth.

But here is something about being Natasha Romanoff and being friends with Clint Barton—he knew. And she knew that, too.


	5. Show Me the City

**Author** **'** **s Notes:** Thank you for all the reviews, follows and favourites! You've been so kind to me. Sorry for the late update but since the mid-terms are finished I'm back!

I've published a one-shot named Distance between You and Me. Maybe you'd like to look it up :)

The contemporary dance I was watching and trying to refer to was Take Me to Church by Sergei Polunin…You can feel my obsession already.

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 _Autumn is best season here_ , Natasha thought as she walked out of the JFK Airport. _C_ _'_ _est ni chau ni froid_ , she silently recited the sentence in her old French textbook, and wondered at how perfectly the text fit for the weather. Sometimes the simplest words had the most complex meaning, or in this case the most accurate, didn't they? It was hard to imagine that she had just arrived in this new city two months ago and now she was feeling settled, waiting for the taxi. Her phone rang.

 _You already out of JFK?_ _You think it_ _'_ _s okay to stop by Steve_ _'_ _s? I_ _'_ _m having my dinner there._

She had missed him. she had missed him enough to feel as if her 7-hour flight had been a 14-hour one. She had missed him enough to smile like a fool at her phone screen right then.

 _Okay I_ _'_ _ll be there in about an hour._

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 _Ding._

Clint looked up from his laptop for the hundredth time of that evening—but it was just another ordinary customer. He watched the woman put a few muffins on to tray and walked up to the counter. Ever since Natasha sent him a message about the plane taking off the morning he had been waiting for her. He had spent his day glimpsing at the clock and counting how many more hours he would have to wait. We had come staright to the bakery because well, he couldn't just invite her to his home if she agreed to meet him today. He was eager to see his partner, and Steve said anyone, even a blind man, could sense that.

'...would that be all, ma'am?...no sorry we don't have crepes today.'

He was sure Steve would use this to mock him _forever_ andeven tell Natasha about it. But he didn't care, if that meant she would appear on the front porch steps then he would.

And she did.

He didn't even try to stop himself from jumping up from the sofa and striding across the room to her. He didn't think about whether she was as happy as he was. He embraced her in a bone-crushing hug.

Tic. Tac. Tic. Tac. Tic. Tac. Steve had the mind not to crash a plate or turn on the blender.

Wait…did he just hugged her? Or was he still hugging her, technically?

It'd been long since last time someone had hugged Natasha Romanoff. It'd been long since Natasha Romanoff had offered someone a chance. And it was surprisingly _not so bad._

He noticed her stiffness and loosened his arms, ready to let go—even if he wanted to hold on to her for _ages._

 _Pack simple_ —it was the most useful advice ever because otherwise there would be a huge BANG sound when she stretched her arms and threw them around his neck. It might have been even longer, since last time she had _willingly_ hugged someone else. Now she had to admit that hugging wasn't any more difficult than three grand jetes at time.

Or was it just Clint?

She rested her head on his chest, allowing herself a moment of weakness. She smiled as he got the signal _loud and clear_ and tugged her closer. She slowly inhaled the scent of his minty shampoo mixed with pumpkin and coffee from the kitchen. It was refreshing and soft and warm.

She tilted up her head so she could see his face, nudging his left arm so he could let her go.

'Stop looking at me like that—it's less than a week. I'm all good and in one piece now let me in and I can eat some real food.'

Clint touched his nose on top of her hair slightly but fondly, and led her to his booth.

'Hey Natasha.' Steve nodded at her.

'Hey Steve,' she nodded back. 'I got a cookbook for you.'

'That's so nice of you, thanks.' Steve replied and gestured towards a door behind the counter. 'I've got some space next to the kitchen. You want to put your stuff there?'

'Oh I think I can just drag it with me...if you don't mind. It doesn't really take up too much space here.' She sat down on the sofa beside the small wooden desk. Steve was back in a moment and got her a strawberry pavlova. Oh that's wonderful. She missed real food too much to watch over her diet.

'How was your flight?'

'Really Steve you have to use cliché to start a conversation,' she swallowed down the strawberry half without chewing. 'It was okay, though this question is _not_ so okay when you've asked about that thousands of times.'

Clint sat down beside her, clicked pause on the video he'd been watching and started to search for pictures of the gala. 'The official pictures should be out in a few days. Can't believe you didn't snap a photo of the new tutu for Kitri.'

'Stop complaining will you? I've said I'm sorry! Why are you even interested in tutus? Anyways the pictures are probably out now, I didn't ask them. Are they out online?' She leant towards his direction to get a view of the screen.

'Nope. Their twitter account says they'll be out later today, though.' Damn she was _close_. He could smell the faint rosy and honey scent of her lotion. He adjusted the screen so that she could see better.

'Okay. I bought a magazine in the airport and was trying to read the review of the performance. Sounds more fun than waiting for my own pictures to come out.' She shifted back to her seat. 'What were you guys doing?'

'I was watching this contemporary and Steve was…doing his baking stuff.'

'Actually my "baking stuff" is called "mixing up another batch of digestive biscuits", speaking of which I think I'd better get back to the kitchen now.' Steve nodded an apology and headed back into the kitchen.

'Put that video on. I haven't much chance to watch anything lately.' She muttered with her mouth full of the sweet dessert.

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'I loved it.' Natasha walked back from the counter with a cuppa and sat down. 'That absolute control over his torso. Dream to have that.'

'Yeah,' he agreed.

'Just…look at those feet! Argh. And the legs and oh, the butt. And the back and neck…'

'I didn't know Natasha Romanoff would be such a _fangirl_.'

'Yes I am. You have a problem with that?' She tilted an eyebrow. She had a life before moving here, before knowing him. It hadn't been the life of a royal, but had had its own joy.

'Nope. Do that all you want. Just be quick 'cause I'm going back to the theatre for that last combination of the day.'

'I thought you finished early today?'

'Another combination can't hurt. It's still early. And you should really get a rest, Tasha. Under eye bags don't look pretty on stage.' He shook his head and put the laptop away. She was quiet—or in her case— _extra_ quiet for a while, and turned to look at him with that expression a 5-year-old put on when they passed a confectionery.

'What?'

'I haven't had a tour around the city yet.'

'You haven't?' _How is that even possible?_

'I spent my first day in town at the theatre and then it has been working and dancing and all sorts of things going on…haven't had a chance to do it.'

'You have your Sundays off and you don't exactly live fifty miles away from the city centre. Go out and you're guaranteed to run into something. _S_ _omething_ something, I mean.'

'What do you do on Sundays?'

 _Point taken._ 'I sleep and stretch and jump. Fine.'

'I sleep and stretch and jump _and_ go get the paperwork done, and then I sleep some more. I'm not on a tour, Barton. I have a long-term contract here.' She sipped from her cup. 'Good thing is that Lincoln Centre is now off the list, yay.'

Okay, okay. He had to admit she was _skilled_ to let out just enough expectation in her voice so that no one but him would notice it, and now he couldn't refuse.

'You want a tour?'

'Yep. But no, not that kind of tour where we rush from the Wall Street to the Statue, and then the Broadway show and end up on the Empire State Building in one day. A sightseeing spot, maybe, but show me something else too.'

'What kind of things? Any advice?'

'Well, you've been living here since forever so you should know more than me.'

He should know better than ask for her advice, though. 'Anywhere?'

'You're not going to pull me into some dark alley, right Barton?'

'Fine. But not tonight. This Sunday, if you'd like.'

'Very well.'

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So on the Sunday morning she woke early, feeling so proud of herself for having the mind to bring some nice dresses instead to piling them up in the closet of her old Petersburg apartment. Ah, so now she almost felt like one of those people who dress up to have breakfast in a decent place, she thought as she pushed open the bakery door.

'Morning!' Steve greeted as he walked out of the kitchen with a fresh tray of baked goods, 'early bird, Natasha.'

'I wish I was sleeping the day on my bed, Steve, but first I've got to have the touring thing done or people will be forever questioning me about it.' She nodded to the tall blond man and picked a booth. 'The croissants smell so wonderful!'

'Want some?'

'One is good I think. Some grapefruit juice? You have that today?'

'Yep. You're waiting for Clint?'

'Yes.' She tried not to be so embarrassed about it. Come on, girl! He was just taking you on a tour!

'Then you want some colouring papers? We have crayons too.'

'I envy those people who take their kids out for breakfast. They have way too much time.' She took one page and a box that contained four crayons and settled into the sofa, enjoying the early morning hours of the day. She was used to waking up early, but waking up early and not having to rush anywhere was rare, and nice.

'You've got a talent for drawing! Now this is your breakfast, ma'am—'

'I don't know others but let's not do _ma_ _'_ _am_ —'

'—Mademoiselle. We still have grapefruit these days but a few weeks later it'll be all about tea and coffee.' Steve said as he helped laid the cup on her table.

'That's fine. Warm tea is a favourite, too.'

'Good morning! Sorry I was a bit late—or you're a bit early.' Clint walked into the room. 'Good morning Steve, good morning Tasha.'

'Morning. I shall go back to the kitchen now. The first wave of customers has passed but then the lazy birds gotta wake up, too.' He blinked at Natasha and disappeared behind the door.

Clint helped himself to a cup of coffee and some croissants. 'You have a plan for today?'

'I thought you had one, Barton. I wake up this early just for you to bring us to hell-knows-where.'

'Okay I've got this idea that we could just go wandering about in the Met and maybe some other places. Then I know this place in which we could have a real, sit-down dinner, and you could have an early night. Tomorrow is a workday and I'm sure everybody only gets more nervous as the Season approaches the holidays.'

'Sounds good.'

She had half of the croissant in her right hand and a chubby red crayon in the other as he sipped the burning hot coffee and went over the news and emails. 'Look! The interview you'd done for that magazine is out!'

'Oh.' She didn't even bother to look up. Coulson carried out a new tray of biscuits and laid the _ring the bell_ sign on the counter. 'I'm sure Natasha gets the nice compliments and all.' He walked to them with two biscuits in a cute teacup and then returned to his kitchen.

'Thanks Steve. Yummy.' She took one and pushed the porcelain towards her partner.

'Look! You want to read it?' he held out his phone.

'I'll do it after I got back to my flat. Now shut up and let me do the colouring.'

He sank back into the sofa beside her and read the article. 'Too bad they didn't interview him about whether he liked your daily outfit.'

She knew he was referring to her black leotards _again_ and rolled her eyes.

'Tasha?'

'Hmm?' She hummed, her voice light as she read the review but he could tell from her frown that she was concerned.

'You mind that hug the other day?'

'What hug—oh.' A long pause. She sighed. 'No.'

'Good, cause you have beautiful arm muscles to throw a really good punch if you don't.' He draped his right arm around her waist and pulled her close. She stilled for a second and was suddenly so grateful that there was no one in the bakery (except Steve, but he was working in the back, and she was grateful for that too).

'Let go of me—or I could always paint a face,' she menaced in a low voice with the red crayon.

'Nope since you like that hug Tasha I think you'll like this one too,' he said smugly, resting his chin on her locks, 'go on if you want to paint my face, but you might want to reconsider as it'll take hours to wash it off and the Met would be closed by that time.'

'Cheeky. Plus I can go there on my own, you know.'

'If that was true, you would be there now and I would be in my bed,' he slowly, deeply inhaled her shampoo.

'I don't do this public display of whatever-mood-you-are-in. Sorry.'

'I'm sure you're smart enough to work out a way to colour that page with my arm in its current position Tash,' he just hugged her tighter. 'Plus the lazy birds haven't arrived yet.'

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'Have you ever been to the Hermitage Museum?' Clint asked curiously as he and Natasha sat in the restaurant which had turned out to be a great dinner place in the Central Park. He was thankful that the sky turned dark pretty early in this time of the year so that they could enjoy a night view even when both of them were heading back in an hour or two. He thought about his day—their day as he flipped through the menu absentmindedly and waited for his partner to make up her mind. Probably the Met always had this many people but Clint couldn't remember last time he'd went there. All he'd got was a vague memory labeled a happy one, and he was all too glad to have renewed it with the lady sitting in front of him, and maybe add a wonderful finish to it with her too.

'Госуда́рственный Эрмита́ж? I was born—okay, not born, but I spent my last seven years in that city, for heaven's sake. Why ask?' Natasha kept her eyes trained on the sandwich she was holding because she didn't know what else to do—holding someone's hand may be a good idea especially when you're walking _with someone_ in such an artistic place, she could tell from years of unintentional observation made in the theatre after the curtain was down, but it wasn't something she would expect for herself. It was far too sweet. And being Natasha, she didn't even try to ignore the uncomfortable feeling in her gut when she knew she couldn't deal with it as she'd done thousands of times before in productions and plays—simple because it was _not_. Real life could be a little scary, or a lot.

'Nothing particular. I just thought it must be a very, very grand palace and museum.' Clint took a bite on his sandwich.

'It is. I know it's unusual but just in case they decide we should take a tour in Russia, you should go.'

'Describe it?'

'Don't even know where to begin. You'll know when you see.'

'And now that you're stuck with me, should I expect a tour too?' He blinked.

She rolled her eyes. 'Shut up. It's most likely you'll go there alone during the summer anyway.' Whether she admitted it or not, Russia was like her second home country after all; she had always had complicated feelings toward it. Now that she was free of her last bond to it—which was her first job after leaving the academy, she wasn't so sure if she would want to go back any time soon.

As if he could read her mind, he shifted his shoulders. 'I'd rather wait…it'd be much more interesting with you being there as long as you don't pull me into some dark Russian alley either.'

She tried to look unimpressed because dark alleys weren't exactly her favourite go-to place, but as she looked away from him to set her eyes on the skyline of Manhattan, she didn't bother to hide the smile from gracing her lips.

'I love it here. How did you discover this place?'

He was now staring out of the large window too. 'I've only come here once to celebrate a promotion or something...I don't even remember. Steve told me about this place since he knew the owner.'

'That sounded nice.' She didn't pull her eyes away from the scenery.

'Now is better.' He smiled at her. Natasha could feel the smile, he knew. Her being Natasha would understand as he smiled at her not for anything else, but solely for her being there. He was staring but he didn't care. If she would only agree to go out with him and enjoy herself only once than he was going to cherish every moment of it. Somehow the responsibility for ensuring a happy and fine Natasha came to him out of nowhere, and that was the primary reason he took her on this tour today. He was fairly glad that the woman seated across from the table appeared to have a good time, but then he felt so lucky that she was comfortable with him. Natasha hated when people tried to look after her, or at least wanted to shut down for a while, and he was determined not to let her feel that way. Hell he didn't even know if he'd have a chance to revisit this place someday, and he was going to savour it. 'You ready to order?'

'Yep. Consider yourself really lucky to see me eat like a normal person, Barton.'

This was the first time Clint had seen Natasha began her dinner without a salad but a soup instead (she was sure she didn't want both); for the record he actually ordered a salad to make up for his hotdog this noon. When the soup arrived, Natasha ate it using her all-time flawless way, just before he stuffed his mouth with a whole fork of salad, 'you're the most elegant person I know. I mean it. My grandmother taught me how to eat properly but since this is not a starry dance hall I just can't resist feeling the food in my mouth.'

She frowned at his way of eating, but then smiled so slightly she wasn't even sure he would notice. Barton would never know how much she liked the feeling of real, decent food, or how much she wanted to take a full spoon of soup and just let it spread over her tongue before swallowing it like nobody else's business. Instead she had her soup in small sips as she had been told to when she'd still been a child.

'Technically you know the basics, right? Good to know when we are talking to those Tony-Stark-kind-of-people that you're not popping up out of nowhere with a mouth full of chocolate.'

'They won't even let me near those cake pops and tarts!' He protested, 'plus he doesn't eat like a member of Louis XIV's court either, if you live in this city long enough or talk to Ms. Potts often enough. I don't know her that much but Phil does.'

'He does?' she glanced at him and then went back to observing the bottom of the soup plate like a Gipsy fortuneteller. 'I though he barely knew them as he said the couple were friends of the director's?'

'Think Stark is only a few years older than Phil and the lady is almost the same age as him…They even appeared at Phil's last performance—that night he danced Romeo and Juliet with Melinda—and he mentions them quite often, actually.'

'That's good. I like Ms. Potts. Or Pepper.'

'Me too.'

The discussion trailed off as the main courses came. For a long while they both focused on the plate with neither starting another topic, but then again, Clint guess it might be just the right way of them being together.

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'So…thank you,' her voice trailed off as she chuckled, thinking about what she was going to say next. 'It's so old-fashions, but it's a decent way to put it so I'm still saying it. Tonight's been beautiful. Actually this whole day is wonderful. Thank you.'

He focused his gaze on her face. 'My pleasure, Miss Romanoff. You are a most easy-to-please tourist.' New York had always been his city, and then he hoped it would be hers, too.

She tipped her head to the left, stepped in and threw her arms around his shoulders. He stilled a second before circling her waist with his arms, and smirked.

'In the mood for two hugs in a row today, Romanoff?'

'The first one doesn't count. Stop it, and don't call me Romanoff when you are hugging me.'

'—and you are really chatty today. Seriously you are breaking the boundaries here.'

Well he was damn right. She was breaking something—rules, boundaries, she didn't know. Boundaries were natural things she wouldn't test. They were the things that made who she was. She didn't know since when she'd decided to talk little, and she still didn't like to talk around people. But Clint was different. Everytime he shared something of his own with her she would want to talk about some of hers. It was great to let someone know you, and it could be just as bad. Natasha liked it so far, but like hell she was going to let him know.

'I've done too much talking today. My throat hurts. Now shut up.'

They stood there for a minute. He was ready to let go anytime she wanted, but she didn't.

'You know what,' she mumbled against his chest. Clint tilted an eyebrow and knew she could feel the confusion.

I have red skirts and leg warmer and literally red hair that could fit the mood of Don Quixote. He wouldn't have one bad thing to say about my outfit.'

'Hey, no one would. Not even your pickiest ballet teachers.' He probably shouldn't mention her past as she barely talked about it, but he had a point to prove.

She snorted though she meant well. 'That you can never say, Barton.'

'What? Natasha Romanoff, favourite student of every ballet teacher at Vaganova. Every outfit looked beautiful because you are beautiful, Tasha.'

That wasn't the first time she had heard a compliment like that, but with him, it felt like so. She hadn't felt like it since she was a little girl running her childhood away in an English neighbourhood. Unlike her teachers' comments on her beauty, his words didn't mean her techiniques weren't good enough to deserve a compliment. Unlike the compliments from her collegues and fans, they didn't mean she had to work double hard in order to maintain the standard. When he said that, it was just admiration. She felt nothing else.

She breathed deeply. 'That was sweet of you.'

'That was the truth. Besides what about that first-names-when-hugging thing?'

'Clint.' She stressed. He buried his nose in her hair and rubbed his cheek against the fiery red locks. If she had been looking she would likely to call him a puppy but he didn't care.

'That was the spirit. I've had a very lovely day with you, Tasha, but it's late and we have work tomorrow morning. You should use some sleep.'

'You too. Good night, Clint.' She clinged to his warmth for a few more seconds and let go.

'Sweet dreams, Tasha.' He pulled away and stepped back.

She knew he was going to stood there for a while longer, and would always text her to say another night-night just after she had taken her shower and got ready for bed. It made it easier to turn away to face to cold, empty corridor, and made her feel just a bit safer. Probably it was silly put her sense of security on a man—an unreliable human—but she had just done it. Probably it was silly to wait for his late-night text and then text back, but she did. Natasha Romanoff tried to be logical and reasonable about everything she did but there were a few things too exhausting to try understanding; she gave up on those. One of them being dancing until her shoes turned red, another being Clint Barton. Clint Barton the exception to every rule she'd set for herself. Being dependent on another being—that was scary thought. But he popped up in her life with innocent sweetness, and she found herself growing addictive to it.


	6. At Steve's

**Author** **'** **s Note:** I've just noticed that the story now has more than a thousand views. Thank you so much! Also shout out loud to all the reviewers and favourites! Thank you for being patient with me!

Sorry for the late update! I'd been preparing for and taking exams until this Tuesday…At least my IELTS scores look passable, ugh.

In this chapter we are finally seeing everybody in the same scene! I'm not quite secured about it so please do tell me what you think of it. Thanks!

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Maria had known Natasha for 15 years. They had known each other back when she was using fingers to smash paint onto the white paper and Natasha groaning as she stretched for dance class in her salmon pink tutu.

She was rarely sure how to describe their friendship. It was that kind of friendship where you sat and walked together in beautiful silence and after several weeks of messy, hectic agenda and no chat, one of them simply received a very long email from the other.

It was the kind of relationship which involved little words but a whole lot of other things. And because of that, Maria would cautiously say that she knew Natasha.

The redheaded girl had never said this aloud, but she wasn't the kind you talked to on your first day of school and became friends with. And here was something Maria knew: Natasha had absolutely no problem with that. It was just people bursting into her life in their usual graceless ways and her accepting them in her best manners, stopping them precisely at the boundary of the true Natasha.

Here was something else she knew too: A job in New York didn't change her friend. She still talked as professionally as she could, smiled her best smile at everybody, and dancing remained the No. 1 priority.

Or she could say that something _had_ changed because before New York, Natasha's life hadn't involved a certain Clint Barton. All of this made her more curious to meet him, the man Natasha didn't talk about with a cold, professional attitude but with general fondness and confusion. Natasha was good with emotions; she studied them, controlled them, and ignored them with grace. When Maria was 14 years old she received a letter from the auburn-haired girl, in which it said emotions were more physically tiring than the most exhausting barre class. Then Maria could only imagine her friend learnt the lesson to keep her emotions at bay the hard way, because they no longer needed to talk it out loud even when she could sense the satisfactory, anger, sadness or vacancy in the simple 'hi', though softer moods rarely appeared in their phone calls and not-so-usual emails and text messages.

She didn't have to picture how handsome he looked like in a loose white shirt and tights, for she had seen his pictures on various accounts of ballet magazines and dancers on the social medias (besties at least cared about each other's job and hobby even if they weren't interested enough to take them themselves—Natasha knew the basics of period costumes too, to be fair). She didn't have to imagine how he jumped high and proud because she'd trust Natasha on this one and think of him as highly as possible. She didn't have to guess how prince-like Clint Barton was because Natasha had met one too many and they were not her type.

Well, Natasha didn't have a type, actually. Natasha didn't even date or try looking for potential dates. Which was why Maria was so surprised when Natasha told her about her tour in the city. A visit to the museum, and then somewhere nice, somewhere private? In this world only Natasha wouldn't admit it was a date. And maybe the man, too. Natasha had the most undetectable mood swings and how Clint Barton managed those, Maria was most confused about out of all things.

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'So this is the dancer, and this is the guy who doesn't like British confectionery or baked goods.' Natasha concluded as she finished presenting the two guys to Maria.

'Umm…oh.' Maria responded shyly. She was that kind of girl who was so quite at the beginning but then got really enthusiastic once she blended in.

'Now that we have all met each other, why not sit down and have a cuppa?' Steve led them to a booth.

'It's late and I don't really eat at this time. Maybe some milk will do, Steve.' Natasha sat down and fought back a yawn. It was after the evening classes and she felt lucky for not having performance on a Saturday night.

Clint was nodded in agreement and Maria asked for milk as well. It was childish—most people didn't have a whole cup of milk after they grew out of childhood, but the habit seemed to remain between her and Natasha. Clint wasn't used to it since healthy or not espresso was his all time favourite, but milk looked like a good option when it was nearly ten in the night.

'Steve please bring some honey if you have it.' Natasha said into the kitchen. She remembered well how her friend liked honey in her late night milk when she painted and sewed into midnight.

Maria sighed. 'I haven't had a night like this after having Lopakina. Not that I'm complaining, but a child really drained you out.'

'Is she here too?' Clint asked and Maria only assumed her friend had told him about her daughter.

'She'll be here in late December. I've sent her to stay at Granny's house. Auntie Peggy has agreed to take care of her and it seems the most convenient for now.'

'That's nice.' Steve brought back a tray with four cups of milk and a honey jar. 'So I'm rather curious about the baked goods in the UK since Natasha brought it up. Please tell us about those!'

'See how you can take a baker out of the kitchen, but you can never take the kitchen habit out of the baker?' Clint smirked at Steve as he passed the honey along.

'Maria is a great baker herself actually,' Natasha took the jar and nodded to the brunette.

'Oh no, not at all,' the brunette shook her head. 'I have a picky toddler and simply had to make something to satisfy her taste buds.'

'Oh then you must tell us all about it! Would you like to come to the kitchen so that I can show you where I work? Maybe help check that the scones are English enough?' Natasha was not exactly surprised to find the usually-very-calm Steve excited to show her friend the kitchen a.k.a where-magic-happens-every-day.

'Sure, if you don't mind,' Maria answered in a light tone and turned to the redhead seating beside her.

'Of course not. Now that you're in New York for the holiday we have at least two months to do all the catch-up and some more,' Natasha replied and hand her friend the unfinished milk. 'Meanwhile Barton and I could discuss about The Nutcracker and all those holiday shows and it's gonna be boring as hell to you guys.'

'Okay. I'll be back in a minute.'

That left two of them the only ones in the room. Natasha was getting sleepy from all the hard work in the week but she tried to sit the straightest she could and sip milk from the delicately painted mug. Clint had already finished his and was now staring at her. She'd got used to being stared at, especially by him over the past few months, but those blue eyes were now staring at her in a manner no one had ever had—no stupid arrogance or desire to take control; nor did they say she belonged to anyone else other than the woman named Natasha Romanoff.

But that stormy blue really made her want to _belong_ to somewhere.

Or someone. She doubted there was a difference. After all, the heart was a place and mind too, huh?

She stared back, letting confusion show through her eyes so that he could spit out whatever was currently filling up his mind.

'You used to have a very beautiful time in England,' he didn't ask but quietly stated instead.

'Yes,' she answered in a weaker voice. 'But what's passed is past, Clint.'

'Your past makes who you are today, Tasha. Don't deny it.'

'Now is more important.'

'It is,' he sighed heavily. 'Oh, Tasha. Tash Tash Tash.'

'Don't,' she shifted in discomfort. How he said it—the shortened form of a nickname of a nickname. She could hear the exhaustion that wasn't just because of work, and a lot more.

'I'll tell you a story that happened back when I was little—actually not that little but still, very young. And will you tell me one of yours?' he asked softly.

Now clear confusion was clouding her mind but this time she didn't let any show through. She had almost never liked sharing. Her upbringing was more like keeping things to herself and racing to get the best part of _everything_ when sharing became compulsory. It was not like the she had met many people who'd love to share with _Natasha Romanoff, every teacher_ _'_ _s favourite student and the pickiest dancer ever in the history of Russian ballet._

She looked back from the leftover milk at the bottom of the cup to the man sitting opposite her. If she was holding a teacup, she'd have something to concentrate on even that _something_ sounded as foolish as observing the tea leaves in the bottom of a cup. She would think really hard back to when she was a child and wish she had paid attention when Maria was telling her about the different meanings of those patterns she had learnt from a girl's storybook—as if some poor, writhed tea leaves that was about to go down the rubbish bin could arrange themselves into patterns, and one of those patterns could somehow forecast your future husband.

But she wasn't. She was sitting in the bakery which was strangely not so like a bakery but still had managed to win a few points of good impression from her; opposite her was a man who was her partner for the past three months and again, _strangely_ , a little bit more than that. Instead she spoke, her eyes fixing into his because there wasn't a reason to avoid his gaze, and Natasha Romanoff didn't escape even when that gaze was burning her on the inside. She ignored it.

'I don't have much memory to tell. Would rather forget it all.' She whispered softly, letting a hint of tiredness through her voice. Every work day required total effort and right now she wanted nothing more than sinking her feet in the ice bucket and relaxing on her bed.

'I have bits and bites. Some scenes, some flashbacks. I do have a favourite though,' Clint rested his head on his left elbow and looked at her in a way she couldn't refuse. Natasha sighed and shifted uncomfortably, but she'd prepared herself for anything by now—she had done her work for everything she had owned and she would probably have remained a coup dancer if she didn't know better than that. Especially when facing Barton, yes, that man was just _unpredictable_.

'So I didn't exactly spend much of my younger years in the city,' he started.

'I know.'

'Wait—what? I thought I had a NYC accent, or at least that's what everyone told me.'

'Nope. You speak like a New Yorker, but then there was another accent. Your Iowa accent, Barton. Just a hint. Subtle, but still there.' She smirked.

'Fine, fine. But that's not the problem here. You have slight Russian accent when you don't look very pleased, too. Well I'm not going to talk about Iowa any time soon, but I can tell you about New York City.' He slid into the seat beside her. 'My father…he didn't have any idea what a father should be like. One day he was drunk and beat mother and locked her outside the house. My mother decided that this was it and we moved to the city to live with my grandmother when I was about 13. My mother passed away when I was 15.'

'Sorry,' she snapped quickly not even really digesting the new piece of information. It was her instinct. She trusted her instinct—and it wasn't wrong about saying 'sorry' when someone told you someone had died, anyway. The only problem was that she wasn't exactly sure about how to handle this—his mother's death? Seriously? One moment they were just partners working on the same show—okay, more than that, just a lil'bit more—and the next second he was talking about his dead mother? What kind of people even _does_ that? Last time she checked there had been no mutual agreement on telling each other about their dead family members.

He gave her a subtle yet warm smile. 'I basically lived with my grandmother anyways. People always think I went to some ballet performance and wanted to be the prince…but no. Actually the first time I saw ballet was when she was doing glass etching with ballerina patterns. She was a jewelry maker, though.'

'She must have very deft fingers,' she sighed.

'Had. She left when I was 17, just about to graduate.'

'Sorry.' Again she didn't know what to say. Clint Barton had now officially made her _speechless_.

'It's okay. I'm not that close to her, after all. Sometimes I stayed in her workshop because mother was in a crappy mood and snapped at people for no reason. I helped her with some heavy work and spent time looking at those beautiful things. But then I enrolled in higher grades of the school and lived in the dorm and spend my time in the classroom. One of my old neighbours called and said she was in hospital, and next day she passed away. I didn't really feel much.'

'Family matters are tricky, aren't they?' she said in a hollow voice. Not sad, not regretful, she gave no indicator. She never did. He didn't care if Maria and Steve would finish their kitchen adventure and walked out in a second—he just wanted to throw an arm around Natasha. She may not need it—he still hadn't figure out what she needed for life exactly—but he did. And it didn't count as selfish if it was a hug you asked for. Not for him.

'I mean, they are my family, so I love them and that love is out of nowhere. And I'd tried really, _really_ hard to like them, but just when I thought maybe it was possible, something would happen and I would swear to never let it take over me again. Then because I loved them ridiculously, it just repeated itself,' he whispered as he felt her stiff figure leaning just a tiny bit towards his chest.

'Guess what—you wait til the day you're tired of trying and surprise yourself by never needing them again,' she said in a faint, matter-of-fact tone.

Natasha knew she would be lying if she said she understood everything he said perfectly, but at least she was familiar with half of it. The part where she tried to like her relatives in Russia and just when she though everything would turn out okay, she was reminded that they signed the papers to be the guardians—and nothing more. The money came from her dead mother. She had been a boarder long enough to live on her own and all she needed was a guardian on the paper and they gave her that. A guardian who never answered the phone and never actually visited, but she didn't care anymore after one or two years.

She changed. She became stronger. She became focused—on her schoolwork, dance career and nothing else. She accepted that those were what she was born to do, and those things only; she didn't need care, she didn't need love. Love meant fear. She didn't need that. She needed to be free on stage, and to be fearless.

Have you ever seen someone who prided themselves with coldness and lack of emotion? Here we go.

Natasha hadn't really like ballet until maybe the last two years of school and she only learnt to enjoy it when her career went amazingly but unsurprisingly well. When she was ten, she stayed in the classroom two hours after class because she wanted to be the best. When she was fourteen, she sneaked out of the dorm and turned hundreds of pirouettes every night because she wanted to do it better than anyone else.

And she did.

You know what else made her good?

She never put emotions into work. She observed and understood how to make things look very real but within her heart there was never a need to fully _go into it_.

Clint sighed. He didn't know if her statement was true, but he had lived long enough without a family to manage. Maybe it was. Maybe she made it untrue for him.

Because he needed her. It sounded scary to make her 'family', though. It sounded scary to go ride on that rollercoaster with her and it was nothing but torture. It sounded scary to lose her. He couldn't even trust himself on this, but one thing was true. He needed her.

Otherwise he wouldn't be here with her when the sky was dark reddish purple and the noise of the city was humming in the far distance. He wouldn't unseal the stories that he had locked in a deep, deep box in some dark corner and share them with her. He wouldn't feel the need to sit beside her and pull her close. He wouldn't feel such great joy when he gave her neat bun a kiss and she didn't pull away. He wouldn't _not_ want to let go.

Okay, he had to. Physically.

She didn't move. There were other sounds to remind them that there were _people_.

The door knob made its sound, followed by Maria chirping about a biscuit recipe.

Natasha sat straight in half a second—her back so straight Clint thought she couldn't have a better posture even under the eyes of her evil Russian teachers. In someway his hand just wanted to linger around her waist for a more moments and it was _plain_ funny to see how she was that nervous and hid her emotions quick as lightning even though she knew Maria for one and a half decades. But he didn't—he still wanted his partner next Monday.

'Look at you too—those guilty expressions.' Well it was crystal clear that Maria had already felt at home. 'Actually no. There is only one face that looks like someone did something. Good work on wiping off everything or keeping them from popping up in the first place, Natasha.'

'You are not even sure if there _has_ been any. Thanks though,' Natasha smirked at her friend.

Maria raised her eyebrow at the redhead. One, she was observant enough to tell that expression on Barton's face. And two, she had been Natasha's friend long enough and close enough to tell without needing to see her facial expression. 'Steve wants to know if we should get going.'

'Of course,' Clint stood up. Steve had to be in the bakery at five in the morning and they should get home. He held up Natasha's coat for her if after she shot him her I'm-perfectly-good-on-my-own look, 'may I?'

She muttered something and gave such a small nod he wouldn't have noticed if he hadn't paid attention. Maria offered to help washing the mugs and dishes and Natasha just didn't want to imagine what she'd say if she'd seen this. The brunette was her best friend but that cunning smile meant she was downright nosy at times. Ugh.

She sighed silently to herself.

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'Next week we are starting The Nutcrackers. Missed it?' Clint asked as they stopped at her place.

'You would think a dancer would get tired of it when she has done it every year for the last ten years in her life, but that's not true at all,' she shook her head with a smile gracing her lips.

'We'll see what those ten years has done next Monday afternoon then,' he replied and then hesitated. 'This is so old-fashioned but Miss Romanoff, would you mind if I give you a good-bye hug?'

She rolled her eyes despite the warmness in her chest. No one had ever cared about her feelings and wills like this. Want to be a soloist? Principal? Want good stories for the press? Major roles? Do as you're told. No one had ever cared about _her_.

She answered by throwing her arms up in the air then securing them around his neck, pulling him close. His arms snaked around her waist and he rested his chin on her hair. Natasha didn't like hugs but now she would be lying to say she didn't like his. She would be lying to say she wasn't happy about the fact that Clint's arms stayed on her waist longer than a friends' good-bye hug required, too. And she would be lying to say that a few seconds ago she was wondering what if he changed that word after "good-bye" into something else.

But her life was made up of lies after lies after lies.

She closed her eyes for a minute and pulled back, her thumbs mindlessly skimming along his jaw before she could know, and stared into his blue, blue eyes as this would be the last time until Monday morning—and it was ridiculous how a single day-off could seem long when she wasn't seeing Barton.

'See you next Monday then, Clint.'


	7. One Child-or Three?

**Author** **'** **s Note:** I apologise to all my followers for procrastinating…Chapter 7 is finally here! I know it's been a long time but who knew life in high school could get this crazy? I'll eventually finish the story, though.

I love Nutcracker—I have this album of the orchestra and it's great music to accompany my writing process. I think Natasha is that kind of people who are obviously proud of their coldness and solitude because they've been taught to do so but then there's always a secret soft spot here and there even when they refuse to acknowledge it, haha.

Anyways, please read and review!

Enjoy!

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If Natasha had to pick a ballet she likes most, it would probably be La Sylphide because _ugh_ , the tutus. There was simply no need to diet and practise if she couldn't be all skinny-limbed and fairy-like at the end of the day. But then if she was asked about the ballet that she would always turn to when she wanted some charm—The Nutcracker would simply be the answer.

That was how she felt as she sat in her dressing room and actually read the story. Clara was the one every little girl dreamt to be—so pretty in her nightgown with that large bow on her head and oh-so-fortunate to wake up at night to find the toys back to life and have an adventure with them.

But Natasha doesn't want to be Clara. The character was all cute and clever but it was too light for her. At least it made some sense as she had some emotion issues to focus on when she wore black from head to toe for the Sawn Lake's rehearsal; Clara's braveness and fearlessness were somehow childish, and she didn't really want to tire herself out trying to be that girl. She had made it clear to Coulson as she insisted two things. One, she wanted to keep on with her lovely ballerina attire. Two, that attire couldn't go with Clara.

She could only imagine the directors were nothing but pleased with her statement since _who dances what_ was always the origin of conflict in the company, and found herself satisfied with the Sugar Plum Fairy part she got as well. That way she would be in the performance with a nice role, while not having to feel like a naïve five years old. She didn't care about whether she was going to be paired with someone in the show, either. She had other rehearsals for a contemporary with Clint, and all other leading male dancers didn't really like her, she could tell. Not that she could blame them.

'Hey.'

She raised her eyes from the page as a familiar voice rang from the other side of the door, and she was thankful to him for speaking first—nothing annoyed her more than people knocking on the door without saying anything. Clint waited for several seconds to hear if she was busy, and when there was not a 'wait a minute' he just opened the door and peaked in.

She put a bookmark on the page and tossed it on the counter. 'Just come in. And close the door. Maybe lock it, but I think all the people know how angry I would be if they just come in.'

'What do you have for lunch Tash?' He asked as he sat down on the other chair in the room with two brown paper bags and a wrapped something—Natasha had no idea—on his lap. 'Cause I think you are going to have soup that looks like water again and I've brought pancakes with me. You can't resist pancakes, can't you.'

'I will not eat anything I don't want to eat. Not even pancakes. At least it depends,' she turned away to brush all the little pots and palettes of eye shadow and cheek tint to the side.

'Like I would ever bring you something unhealthy, Romanoff. Besides have you ever turned down an offer of mine?'

'Nope,' because in Barton's vocabulary, all the sweetness belonged to the mood-lifter group, and how on earth was she going to argue with him that mood lifter probably means weight lifter. She grabbed one paper bag from the man and looked inside to shut him up. Oh whatever that was, it smelled really good. She thought her stomach had been tamed to not have funny reactions when her brain said good food, but apparently she was wrong. Natasha Romanoff, diet expert, wrong. Ha-ha.

'Slow down, gal. I have something else for you too.' It was then she noticed Clint wasn't sitting in his lying-in-the-sofa, care-free style, but with a straight back and a serious expression.

'I knew it.' Natasha sighed, trying her hardest to not let the satisfaction through as she chewed on the pancake, knowing that she would atone for the chocolate chips which she was so sure was there and not caring about it. 'Spill it Barton.'

'Something good and something bad. Which one do you want to hear first?'

 _Cheesy_ _bastard._ All he got was a stare from her green, green eyes.

'Good one first, in case I get kicked out and you'll never have the chance to hear it then,' he mimicked her raised eyebrow.

'The bad one first, in case I regret not kicking you out in the first place.'

' _Fine_ you stubborn woman. I met Steve today as I get both of us lunch and obviously he has been hearing from Maria, don't ask me why—'

'Maria has been _so subtly_ hinting that he's a nice guy. Carry on.'

'He said Maria was looking for a babysitter since the previous one has decided to go across America to spend Christmas in a warmer place like California, and then I was like—'

'You were like _hey I can do it_ _for you._ '

'How—how d'you know?' His almost artistically-made pancake was still sitting in his lap and the surprise felt enough to keep him full with it and probably without dinner as well.

She shifted on her chair and pulled back her stretched-out legs and crossed the ankles like she did when she was feeling the need to impress. 'Don't think I haven't noticed Clint. Your whole body was luminous when they mentioned the preparation and gifts for kids during the Season the other day.'

'Well I have never been much of a child myself but that doesn't stop me from being fond of kids Natasha.'

The flash of guilt in her eyes disappeared so fast he questioned his eyes instead of her mask. 'And I guess Steve assumed that you'd want to come with me—I quote his words 'how about Natasha? Is she in too? She must be good with Maria's kid'. And obviously I failed to stop him before he happily texted Maria about it. Don't kill me Tasha. Don't kill him either.' His hands were clenching on the paper bag.

'Don't torture that poor bag Barton,' her voice was faint. 'Maria knows if I want to look after her kid. No need to worry.' Although there was already a very bad feeling in her gut and she made sure to remember to give Steve the most boring explanation and the deadliest stare next time when she stopped by. She must have done something in her last life to deserve all these nosy friends. 'What's the good thing, now that your admission to this room depends on how Maria takes the message?'

'I brought you this along the way.' He set the paper bag on the counter and showed her the large hardcover with a simple bowknot on the upper right corner.

'You don't have to buy anything Barton—' she turned her gaze away.

'Then who is eating that beautiful pancake?' In fact he was just happy to take care of her and watch her eat—consider that as the duty of a friend. Buy her things, the action itself, made him happy, if anything.

'C'mon Tasha, open it. I'm sure this is the first time I put a bowknot on something after my grandmother died.'

Her heart clenched. She didn't want that gift—no matter how well-meant it was. Damn that bastard—why does he make everything about her sound so important? This was wrong. She was not important. She didn't want to be important. Well, except dancing. When she was a real life person and not a fictional character, she didn't want to important. She didn't want to be important to a specific someone—that was just another weak spot. She'd had enough of those.

She hated the way her fingers were touching that book. They were holding on to it way so tightly her knuckles looked even paler on her light skin. _Think about the black swan, damn it Natasha, you need that mask don_ _'_ _t you?_ Her hands were shaking but only she knew. Her heart was like a fucking puppet right know and every fucking string was controlled by her usually deft fingers. She slowly slipped down the bowknot and rid of the wrapping paper.

'It's a Nutcracker story book Tasha!' Cling boomed beside her. 'I saw it in an antique store last time I was on tour in Europe. I checked the plan even when I knew you wouldn't be doing Clara, and when I saw your name nest to the Sugar Plum Fairy, that name is so sweet by the way, I decided that this book would be a gift to you. You have Sugar Plum Fairy who is all elegant and exquisite and _you_ are all elegant and exquisite, and look at the cover, the stitches. Touch it Tasha. Feel the pattern. This is made for you Tash.'

She sit on her chair, daring him to move closer because he was acting like he was going to stand behind her and have her palm warm in his and teach her how to 'feel the pattern'. Gross.

'Is this some sort of an apology? I don't need those from you. I trust Maria enough to know she'd think Steve is talking nonsense when he purposes that maybe I'm good with kids. It's not your fault, I'm just one of those weird people who's not good with babies.'

'Oh I didn't think of it as an apology…' _very_ well Barton now he was just making her feel arrogant as hell for saying those. 'It's a gift. For you. It happened before the Steve and babysitting accident. Okay well you can think of it as some sort of make-up gift, it's not though.'

'I said you shouldn't be giving this to me.' She said in a low voice, her eyes still burning holes into the beautiful book. 'It's a fairy tale book. So childish. You can totally give it to Lopa.'

'Lopa has her own gifts. Oh Tasha. Nat. Take it. It belongs to you.'

Holy crap. She couldn't even lift her eyes now even if she wanted to—he must be starring at her with the biggest puppy eyes ever—that kind of puppy eyes that vowed to swallow you with…with something that made her stomach churn. No god no. Can't she just enjoy her pancake quietly? Chocolate pancake as lunch sounded like a once in a life time treat.

'I'll take it Barton. It may or may not belong to me—depending on how much Lopa like it. Oh she'll know about the book. I will tell Maria when she tells me about the babysitting thing and I'll let he know there is a very tempting book sitting in my lonely apartment waiting for an adorable little reader to actually read it.'

'And you will not leave her alone with that book. I know she is smart but there is a chance a four year old accidentally hurt it.'

'Nope. It's hers if she likes it. And she will.'

'Now you are just being cruel Tasha. I give this to _you_ , and it will stay yours.'

'I don't like that you give me this admittedly very lovable hardcover. I _don_ _'_ _t_. Got it Barton?'

'Shouldn't you be calling me Clint by now, after my offer of such an _admittedly very lovable hardcover_?'

'Clint.' She addressed as if a mother who had just spent three hours dealing with her still-crying toddler. Not that kind of butterfly-in-the-stomach feeling his subconscious had expected, but that would do now.

'It's just a book, Tasha. Nothing important. It's not like I have given you a necklace or a pair of diamond earrings—which I'm sure you own many. I just thought you'd like it.'

'I do.' She muttered. 'I like it, I really do, Clint. But this is still a gift, and I don't like receiving gifts.'

'Well, you must have received countless gifts in your life. The birthdays, Christmas mornings, after every damn successful show. Flowers are bound to fill your dressing room. And there are more valuable gifts as well.'

'We all know gifts bought with lots and lots of money don't equal valuable ones…' There were far too many pearls and jewels sitting in the back of her closet, exactly where she tossed them on the night when she received them from rich sponsors, secret admirers. Normal people would send cards—which she would read and carefully collect into a small biscuit tin. People who spent the money to get her jewels wanted to see the jewels being worn, the young girl intrigued with the shine and weight. They wanted to see her being theirs, gullible and demure as if she was still in the character on stage an hour ago. Natasha was anything but stupid—she might not be the best Coppélia, but she certainly was not _their_ Coppélia. Nausea came as she thought of the ballet and she struggled to replace the image with another character…which one? It was funny 'cause she should've known so, so many productions from the romantic era, but the only one she could think of right now is Giselle. _Tragedy, Romanoff. Can you even think of something that ends nice in your life?_

'Does mine count as a valuable one, Natasha?' His soft voice became the best distractor as he picked up his pancake and was now chewing just like she'd done a moment ago.

'You are a friend. Don't look at me like that. A very good friend, Clint.' She came to New York believing that she was better being left alone and didn't need no one, and a few seconds ago she just openly admitted that she had a _good_ friend except Maria. Oh Natasha suspected that the brunette has already found out but then she realized that an ever _nosier_ gossip-girl Maria was waiting for her.

There's no going back, isn't there?

People made being with friends with someone sound so simple—it's not. Now for Natasha. How many friendship-like relationship she'd had? How many of those people would she refer to as friends nowadays?

You don't even need one hand to count for the second question. A finger would be the answer.

Clint Barton was someone Natasha had never expected to meet. At first he respected her and she respected him, and that was it. But then when they danced together, when they were forced to have perfect control over every muscle and every dramatic detail and when neither of them had the time to think of anything else, the emotional part came together so naturally it almost frightened her. Her plan was to switch company, throw herself into a new environment and embrace her career as it came. He was not part of that plan. Their friendship was formed without her noticing it—that wasn't the part of the plan as well. As cliché as it sounded, it just happened. She couldn't control the shockingly demanding side of her mind just as she couldn't control her future at the end of the day. She couldn't control the stupid stupid facial muscles which would automatically twist her lips into a smile when he was fooling around and saying silly things and looking at her with his stormy grey-blue eyes.

She didn't even want to say _friends with Clint_ silently to herself. It felt strange to vocalise it as if her heart had been avoiding that phrase. But then she knew _friends with Clint_ would sound pretty awesome. She liked it much more than she wanted to.

Secretly Clint wanted more than that. Maybe he wanted to be something more than a friend. Something more than a very good friend. He shared his stories with and bought lunches for the girl sitting in front of him without expecting her to return any of the favour, but it would be so very nice if there was something, a sign as little as the lightning flash in her deep green eyes, to tell him that maybe she would want to one day. That would be enough.

'So it is _something_ for you. And you don't give those away, if I know you—and I think I do, at least a part of you.' Good lord _a part of her_? Who was he kidding? He either got it all or didn't know a thing. One second he understood her so beautifully as if his brain or rather heart was born to do that. Next second there were more thick walls between them than he could ever count. And sometimes he felt like both. 'You'd keep it Tasha. And now my stomach is protesting and let's eat before the break is over, all right?'

'You can't just order me to do that,' she muttered, but this time just to herself. He smiled. If Clint had no idea about Natasha Romanoff—he could still feel the true meaning when she let the mask fall like that. And he knew his good intention was accepted. Finding gifts and wrapping them were pleasant in themselves, he discovered long ago but seldom had any chance to that happiness in his whole life. And now it was just making his heart swell. The face he saw on Natasha when she opened it was a mixture of surprise, refusal, appreciation and something else he couldn't tell. But allow a man to be blind-sighted for a moment—the happiness of knowing she liked it and accepted it was a hundred times sweeter.

'You should just call me Clint more often.' He lisped as half of his face was hidden behind the food bag. She found it really cute even when her expression was paper blank and she busied herself with the book she'd been reading.

 _Cheeky bastard still_ —but Natasha wouldn't change that moment of comfortable silence between them for anything else in the whole world.

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 _Nat Steve said_ _Clint_ _said you were interested in_ _babysitting Lopa before I find another nanny or babysitter? Since when are you all passionate about kids? -Maria_

 _That obv wasn_ _'_ _t Clint_ _'_ _s side of the story. -Natasha_

 _Knew so. But it would be nice if you two can take_ _the_ _job for a few hours? I_ _'_ _m too busy to even start look for someone. -Maria_

 _Okay if you really want that_ _—_ _remember the time I looked after a kid in our neighbourhood and made him cry for hours? -Natasha_

 _You were what? 12? -Maria_

 _Same. I am free on Sundays and Saturday nights but if I_ _'_ _m tired on Saturday I literally have no patience. U know that. -Natasha_

 _Lucky for both of us and Lop Mr. Barton seems to have a lot of that. -Maria_

 _Fine I_ _'_ _ll ask if he wanna go with me. And don_ _'_ _t call him Mr. Barton. Too funny._ _–_ _Natasha_

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'Auntie Nat!'

'Lopa. Oh you grow so fast.' Natasha cooed with her baby voice and Clint decided to mentally record it so next time she was that stone-faced Natasha at least there was something to remind him she wasn't, behind all those walls.

'It's been long since you last met her. Oh actually no. I sent you a picture or two maybe, but you've never really _met_ her,' Maria said unbelievably as she set her daughter down on the entryway table. 'It's great that she already recognises you; other wise she is very good at causing a disaster.'

'Lucky us,' Natasha answered dryly and looked at Clint. He wasn't paying attention to their dialogue at all—the kid really had him.

'Okay. There are pancake in the refrigerator. Lots of vegetables I believe you can prepare by yourselves without food-poisoning making an appearance in my apartment. The CD shelf is right there in the corner and I've put her toys beside the coffee table. Optimistically I'll be back before seven but no guarantee. Won't be later than nine I think,' Maria shrugged apologetically then placed a kiss on Lop's forehead. 'Be good for Auntie Nat and Uncle Clint dear. Mummy will be back at night.'

'Bye-bye,' Lopa waved, her big blue eyes displaying neither sadness nor excitement. But judging from her own experience, Natasha guessed the little girl already had something in mind. Clint might know too, as he was likely to have seen that expression on her countless times.

She closed the door after the goodbyes and last-minute concerns, and sighed. Clint lifted the little girl up and started walking towards to the living room. 'It's only eight o'clock. What do we do now?'

Natasha hadn't changed her daily routine for many, many years. When she was in school, she talked to no one so naturally no one thought about hanging out with her in bars or clubs; after she got in the company, she wanted control over her life as much as she could and solitude was her best friend. Get up, go to class and rehearsals, perhaps eat something if she felt like it, do the makeup and go on stage, go home, rid of makeup and sleep. Repeat. Sunday meant sleeping more and doing barre class at home. Everything was in plan.

Which is why an hour after they became the babysitters of Lopa, Clint looked up from the Bolshoi's Nutcracker video and found the three of them in this weird but nonetheless adorable situation. Natasha was on the floor, stretching with her legs pointing in opposite directions and her upper body almost making contact with the white carpet. She was wearing a cashmere sweater, a shirt and a pair of sweatpants under her long coat that day; Clint could only guess the reason for her to maintain body temperature was because 'I grew up in Russia.' Lopa had clearly heard about what Anutie Nat did, as she quietly accepted the fact when Natasha told her that she was going to at least stretch if she couldn't do full barre class today, only with a small requirement of putting the music on. So now Natasha was stretching in the exactly same posture she was when he brought her breakfast the first time, with a three-year-old seated against the coffee table watching her and the music of Dance of the Mirlitons was flowing in the room. Despite the fact that it was quite a brisk choice for stretching music, Clint knew Natasha secretly loved it as she often absentmindedly hummed it these days when she was relaxed.

'Lopa?'

'Yeah?' the little girl replied while trying to copy Auntie Nat's stretching posture.

'Do me a favour? I've got a book in my bag. A beautiful big book. Can you find it for me?'

'Sure.' Lopa climbed up the sofa and reached for the soft leather bag. Clint had never looked into Natasha's bag before except for a glimpse that he couldn't avoid, and now he was watching a three year old zip it open and digging right into it. That book wasn't hard to find at all, given that the only other book was a novel written in Russian. He watched the girl pull it out and her mouth formed an O shape in awe.

'It's really good lookin', isn't it Lop?'

'Yeah! It's so pretty Auntie Nat!' she ran towards Natasha as the redhead sat up. 'Can I read?'

Of course. Clint didn't know about Lopa, but he could see why—if her life was around quite people like Maria and maybe Natasha, there was no reason for her not to wish to read the book on herself. She probably didn't like being disturbed, either.

Natasha shot him a look that said she was up to something. Damn her stupid stubborn Russian scull! He nodded his head to the side. Nope she wasn't going to do that. Not when she let him know beforehand.

Not that he was selfish. Not on this, as least. If Lopa liked that book, which she obviously did, he could absolutely keep it in mind and look for something like this on his next trip, or go to some antique shops he knew well in New York since he almost lived in a jewelry workshop when he was younger. It was just that he wanted her to accept it—why would she not? It was just a book, a present he bought with probably twenty euros and really, really hoped that she would like. It was a story about the girl, naïve though and he knew that was how she viewed Clara, being so brave and coming through the troubles. It was a world where 'troubles' equaled adventures in which everybody would find something wonderful and came back all safe and whole. He wanted her to know that there were good things in life. Maybe only a few, but far more than enough. There were people in the world who would give her real presents that were more than a favour. There were people in the world in front of whom she didn't need to wear a hundred masks to look perfect. In front of whom she could be a girl her actual age, not a porcelain doll or an ancient soul of some kind.

It suited her better than the jewels from people she didn't even knew. She deserved better than the hungry glares reflected in the shiny surface of those. If she would accept those, she could surely take his and read it or put it in the deserted one of her storage rooms.

He shot back a dirty look. _No you_ _'_ _re not thinking about doing that._ _Y_ _ou like it too much to give it away._ _Y_ _ou like me too much_ _don't_ _you Tasha?_

She rolled her eyes. Her eyelashes fluttered and she looked down at the book resting on the girls lap.

He was right. She hated to admit that.

'Hey Auntie Nat?'

'Yeah darlin'?'

'Can we bake cookies later? Afternoon, maybe?'

Clint smiled to himself. Is that what she was thinking about when saying bye-bye to mummy?

Natasha raised her eyebrows at him again while Lopa went back to being intrigued by the book. Oops. Of course she wasn't about to do that. What type of cuisine could you even expect from someone who barely ate at all?

It wouldn't be a problem if he could bake properly. Sadly that wasn't the option. Cooking? He was good. Just recently he proved himself being more than capable of feeding one person, by the way.

But baking…had simply not been in his consideration. Baking cost time and money, and he was grateful to have the money to buy enough butter for bread when he was still in school. He didn't even get close to pastries and confectioneries before he discovered the wonderful sandwich Steve made in his street-corner shop.

Steve was working. Maria was working. He was one lucky man left with a girl you couldn't say no to and a woman who didn't even bother to feed herself. He didn't want to piss her off, but well, wouldn't hurt to learn something new, right?

'Know where your mom keeps her cookbook, Lops?'

The girl nodded sweetly.

He walked straight to a half-frozen Natasha. 'Time to brush up your surviving skills, love.'

She shivered, because _love_? What _love_? Clint grinned as she murmured something that sounded like _don't call me nicknames_. He tilted an eyebrow at her. _So only Tasha and Tash are okay?_ Then he'd make sure to call her Tasha every single day for the rest of his life.

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Eight hours later.

'It's only _four_? We have to be here for another FIVE hours?' She whispered with exaggerated horror but real panic in her tone.

Now _that_ was interesting. Clint had never hear her lose control of her emotions for even once in the all four months he had knew her.

'Tough girl getting frustrated because of some not-so-perfect biscuits?' He teased as they washed up the blender and bowls.

Lopa had passed right out after they helped her clean her hands and told her to go wait in the living room. The kitchen was a mess. Spoons and biscuit cutters scattered across the counter, and the floor was littered by flour spots and bits of batter here and there—which admittedly wasn't the fault of the _only_ three-year-old here. Maria was going to kill them if she came home right to the rob scene.

She rolled her eyes. 'Let's see if the biscuits are tougher, Barton.'

'Come on Tasha,' he bent over to check the tray in the oven. 'These are not half as bad as I've expected. Rightfully.'

'What did you expect in the first place?' She questioned after popping the bowls in the sink. Her eyebrows raised, she wiped dry her hands and turned to him, waiting for his answer.

'I don't know…the worst circumstance is that we have to dig out some biscuits from the cupboards or go out and buy some to make up for the disaster. But seriously this is not a disaster. It's baking with the kids! Honestly you couldn't expect them to be pastry chef, Tasha.'

'Should I have expected to go mad once that girl started tasting the batter with her finger—because I was never allowed to do that when I was little and I hate messy? Or should I shout at her to put the spoon down when she carried that with egg whites _dripping_ on it?' she hissed, popping the plates on the dish rack with a loud _pang_.

'Seriously what _were_ you allowed to do? Please don't tell me they just locked you up and pushed you through the dark corridors to the classrooms and studios.'

He meant it as a joke; but the second the happiness was wiped clean off her face he regretted it. She turned around to clean the dough bits on the counter and put away the flour jars.

' _Allowed_ me? Why not just ask what they _told_ me to do? They told me to do extra exercise. They told me to eat only when I felt like passing out. They told me to mingle with whoever they pointed at. They told me to accept their gifts and return the attention. Never once did they told me to love ballet.' She screwed on the tap and washed the cloth in the fastest speed Clint had ever seen. 'They allowed me access to every classroom at every hour. They allowed me more time to linger around the hall after every performance. They allowed me freedom to go out at night as I need—but for what?'

Clint could no longer distinguish if she was talking about her teachers or the directors in her old company, or the so-called family that only wanted to make their fortune from a girl. He walked up close to her, hesitated a bit as his hand hang in the air, half an inch from her shoulder. He wasn't sure if she wanted any touching at this moment.

'For you are amazing and all.'

Silence dropped back—but only for three seconds.

'Yeah I am.'

'Arrogant, Romanoff.'

'Childish, Barton.'

'Oh, you know that Lopa isn't the only child here.'

 _Three children, apparently._

'I'm glad that I finally managed to do it on my own, though.' She sighed softly, no longer with the impatience in her tone. She hated when she had to depend someone for her own life—that was plain annoying. She was so not like a child. She was the opposite of a child. She was a grown-up since the very beginning.

'We all do, right?'

'Perhaps. Did you? I forgot.'

'Tasha!'

'What?' She was glad they were back to the bickering mode again. There was just no need to go over the unhappy memories again. It was hard to admit but she was kind of enjoying being accompanied by him these days. Weak, Romanoff. But still she couldn't help it. She knew she had to resist him along with his blue eyes sometime, because sooner or later things would collapse, but she could find it in her to care right this second.

'Well, it was meant to be an expression, you know. An expression to show my surprise and protest and to inform you that you wouldn't even like me if I really acted like a child but you do like me…' And his fondness every time he thought of the name—the nickname of a nickname. Then the phrase reminded him of that poem by Allen Poe—a dream within a dream, though not the most appropriate, was something he would use to describe his time with Natasha. When she danced towards him with that happy look which he knew was more than a fake one for the character, when she looked at him with the smallest hint of smile on the corners of her lips and her eyes sparkling with something he couldn't quite name, he was sure that this had to be the best dream ever and then he was couldn't be happier it was damn _life_.

Natasha never dreamed of good things—not even as a child. She never understood the need to wish someone sweet dreams. Clara dreamed of colourful adventures and fascinating victories, but you see she didn't want to be Clara. She was glad that this was _reality_ now that her life in Russia seemed like a dream. A very bad one that was always lingering around like a ghost and threatening to bite back in her unquiet sleep every night. But after all, it was not _here_ anymore.

Then there was Clint. His goofy smile and silly gestures that had managed to surprise her every single time. He did not belong to her category of partners, colleagues, teachers, or men. He was not asking for something from her—he could have done that a long time ago when she first arrived, seemingly tough but of course fragile towards any hostility as a new-comer. He was not smiling because there were _people_ watching or he was trying to deprive joy from her fear, even though she was sure there was no such thing left in her now. He was easy—that was the most confusing part. Like if she wanted to deal with him like she'd treated every other men in her line of work, she would've succeeded already. She could sense it. But strangely, she didn't want to from the very beginning. Oh how she knew he was fooling around again, with that stupid grin on his face that had become the most effective trigger for her own. And she wouldn't want to hurt him no matter what.

Okay…she could still hurt his pride, though. To the truth, pretty much everything else except _him_.

Like when facing an oven of biscuits. She bent down to check those burning red stones on the plate.

'You know, I've figured you'd actually know how to bake if you learned one thing from every ten times Steve had been muttering about it.'

'So now you're literally saying that this is my fault, which, by the way, is not a fault at all. When they cooled down they will look like biscuits, Tasha.' He was not surprised by the sudden change in the topic any more.

She snorted. 'Remember half an hour ago you just admitted to me that you knew _nothing_ about baking, Barton? And _now_ you are an expert.'

'Tasha!'

'Again, Barton?' she smirked.

'I'm not going to explain it once more. That'll just make you too pride even for Odile.'

But right now she didn't want to be Odile, though only for this moment. She wanted to be in the dream of Clara. Hell just for this one time she genuinely wanted to enjoy what she was doing outside of work.

Probably Barton wanted that too, for when he finished the last dish to dry and the order had been restored, he walked up to lean against the sink right next to Natasha. Hues of sunset sunk into the room and splashed on the tiles with shades of orange and red and neither of them spoke, neither of them moved.


End file.
